Of Love and Bludgers
by DisplayDiva
Summary: “And all this talk, Oliver—all your theories of love, and Bludgers, and the world—can’t you see that none of it really matters? Theories don’t keep you warm at night, and neither does Quidditch. People do.” Oliver WoodOC
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, nor will I pretend to. Actually, it could be argued that the characters own me, but that's a subject of debate. The text, however, is a product of my mind, and I know the fandom stereotypes, but I'd appreciate if that doesn't go anywhere. If you're bound and determined to steal, I can't stop you, but please be smart about it. Also, this story is contemporaneous with PoA, but that much should be made obvious. __ ****

Chapter One

There weren't many things that could take Oliver Wood's mind off of Quidditch. 

Actually, aside from his classes, to which he only paid enough mind to keep his marks high enough to be eligible to _play_ Quidditch, he didn't bother with much at all. It wasn't as though he had time, anyway. 

He was in his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Captain and Keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and entirely focused on surviving his last year—and winning the Quidditch Cup for his house. They had a fantastic team, probably the best Hogwarts had seen in years, and they really should have been able to win the Cup by now. In fact, it was only owing to a rather unfortunate set of circumstances that they hadn't won yet.

But this year was Gryffindor's year. He could feel it. And that meant one thing, for certain—Oliver Wood's mind was going to be focused entirely on Quidditch this year. Which meant, quite simply, no distractions.

No distractions meant no trips to Hogsmeade, no late nights in the Gryffindor common room, and most importantly, no girls. Not that _that_ was a problem, as practically the only girls he'd spoken to in the past few years had been his own Seekers—Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet. All nice young women, of course, but he had no romantic interest in any of them.

Nor did he have a romantic interest in anyone else inside of Hogwarts—or outside of it, for that matter. No, Oliver Wood was going to be single, and single-_minded_. Every fiber of his being that wasn't required for class would be focused entirely on Quidditch.

Wood had decided most of this well before the summer had ended, of course. But now, on the morning of his return to Hogwarts, his mind was firmly set. He was going to bring the Quidditch Cup back to Gryffindor, or die trying.

"Have you packed, Oliver?" his father asked, as he walked into the kitchen that morning.

"Good morning to you, too, Dad." Wood grabbed a piece of toast from the plate on the table, biting into it without bothering to sit down. If his mother had been there, she would have had something to say about his poor manners. Luckily, she was still upstairs—and his father was immersed in the _Daily Prophet_. "I've had my things downstairs since last night. When are we leaving?"

"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen," his father replied, his eyes not leaving the paper in his hands. "Bruce Waters asked if you'd stop by before you left."

"Should I go now, then?"

He nodded slowly. "Might be a good idea, Oliver."

Wood laughed to himself and took another piece of toast on his way out the door. Mr. Waters wouldn't mind if he hadn't finished eating by the time he reached the house. Then again, it would be surprising if he _hadn't_ finished eating by the time he reached the house, as it was a considerable distance from his own. That was to be expected in the highlands, though. The Waters family lived in the closest neighboring home, and the nearest homes beyond that were several miles away. Wood was used to the solitude, really—it was so much easier for wizarding families to live apart from Muggles, anyway.

He'd finished his toast by the time he was halfway to the Waters' house, and he jogged the rest of the way, wishing he hadn't already packed his broomstick away. It would have been easier to ride than walk, really, he decided as he knocked on the front door. Then he wouldn't have to dread the hike back to his own house.

Mr. Waters answered the front door, smiling brightly as he saw Wood standing there. "Oliver. Hello." He opened the door a bit wider. "Won't you come in?"

"That's all right, Mr. Waters," he replied. "I can't stay long, anyway."

Mr. Waters nodded and stepped outside as well, closing the door behind him. "Ready to go back to Hogwarts, Oliver? I hear Gryffindor is set to win the Quidditch Cup this year."

Wood nodded. "Of course we are. We've got the best team in the school."

"So I hear. Potter's still your Seeker, eh?"

"That's right. And the rest of our team's fantastic, too. There's really no reason we shouldn't win the Quidditch Cup."

"That's what I like to hear, Oliver." He reached out and ruffled Wood's hair. Wood forced a smile as he smoothed his hair back into place. "But you make sure you watch out for that Seeker. Can't afford to lose him this year, can you?"

His tone made Wood wonder if perhaps he knew more than he was letting on. "No, Mr. Waters. The last time we played without Potter—"

"Well, you won't play without Potter this year," he interrupted. "They'll make sure of that."

"Who will?"

Mr. Waters shook his head. "You just keep your mind on Quidditch, Oliver. You've got a tough year ahead of you."

"I'll be fine." Even as he said the words, he somehow doubted him. Then again, Mr. Waters could do that to even the most confident man. "I have to leave soon, so…"

"Oh! I almost forgot why I sent for you." He held a small roll of parchment out to Wood. "Would you mind taking this up to my daughter? I'd send it by owl, but I think she'd rather have it tonight."

Wood nodded as he slid the parchment into his pocket. Ainsley Waters was a fifth-year Gryffindor, one of the few people outside of the Quidditch team that he actually spoke with on a regular basis. Of course, she'd spent the summer in Italy, visiting her mother's sister, so he hadn't seen her at all since they'd left Hogwarts. "I'll see that she gets it, Mr. Waters. Goodbye."

"Oh, and Oliver?"

He'd been halfway turned around when Mr. Waters had spoken again, and he bit back a groan as he turned to face the older man. He had a feeling he knew exactly what this next request was going to be. "Yes, sir?"

"Look out for my little girl, would you?"

"Of course," Wood replied, before he had time to think twice about it. He liked Mr. Waters too much to refuse, but it really _was_ a difficult task. Beneath her quiet outer shell, Ainsley was really a bit of a spitfire, and she'd never taken well to him trying to look after her. In fact, she downright hated it, and Wood had a feeling she hated him by association.

But a promise was a promise, and Wood intended to do exactly as Mr. Waters had asked, no matter _what_ Ainsley thought about it.

"And good luck with the Quidditch season, Oliver!"

The exclamation reached his ears halfway to his own front door, and he turned and waved to Mr. Waters before continuing on his way. _Well, at least he's got my mind back where it should be_, he thought to himself.

He didn't need to think about Ainsley Waters; he needed to think about Quidditch. And so he did—all the way to King's Cross Station, during the walk to platform nine and three-quarters, and as he said goodbye to his parents and boarded the Hogwarts Express. He secured himself an unoccupied compartment, knowing the solitude wouldn't last the entire trip, but not really caring. He had more important things to worry about, anyway.

Those more important things included a whole stack of Quidditch plays for the upcoming season—plays he'd spent most of the summer designing and perfecting. Now most of them just needed a bit of tweaking and fine-tuning before they were ready to present to the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Wood was so caught up in his work—a movement of a Chaser here, a block by a Beater there—that he almost didn't realize there was someone else in the compartment. Almost, that is, until a flurry of giggles caught his attention. He looked up to see four fifth-year girls (he thought they were Hufflepuffs, although he couldn't be entirely sure) smiling at him. "Hello, ladies. Can I help you?"

A short blonde girl giggled again. "You're Oliver Wood. Aren't you?"

"I am," he replied. "You're in Hufflepuff, right? Shouldn't you be off hounding someone like Cedric Diggory?"

All four girls deflated a bit at that. "Cedric's talking to some Gryffindor girls," said a brunette. "So we thought we'd see what you were up to."

A few of them had been eyeing his Quidditch plays, Wood realized, and he casually slid another sheet of parchment on top of them. Luckily, there hadn't been much to see in the plays, but he really wasn't up for taking chances. "You thought you'd see what I was up to," he repeated. "In other words, you're just using me to upset Diggory?"

"If you _are_ using him to upset Diggory, you might do well to know he's got no idea what going on in here," a voice spoke up from the doorway. "He's still two cars down, talking to Ainsley Waters."

The Hufflepuff girls scattered, and Wood looked up at the girl who's provided his saving grace—Alicia Spinnet, as it turned out. She smiled brightly and sat beside him. "Hello, Oliver. It's lucky those girls didn't eat you alive."

"They might have, if you hadn't turned up." He pulled the stack of parchment back into his lap. "I think they just wanted to see my Quidditch plays, anyway."

"I think they wanted a bit more than your Quidditch plays, Oliver."

She was right, of course, and he felt a bit daft for not having realized it sooner. "You're right, Alicia. They would have wanted to see us practice, too."

"Sure," Alicia said slowly. "Sure, if that's what you want to believe. Anyway, I should get back to Angelina and Katie. I only stopped in to save our Captain from being torn to shreds."

"Thank you for that. I don't know how we'd ever win the Quidditch Cup without a full team."

"I don't know how we'd win without you as Keeper," she retorted, as she stood up. "But Oliver?"

Wood looked up from his stack of plays. "Yes?"

"That top play looked absolutely _terrible_."

He grinned. "Decoy. Can't have those Hufflepuff girls leaving with too much information, can we?"

She laughed softly and shook her head. "You're impossible, Oliver."

"I know." He smiled at her as she turned to leave the compartment—and then an idea struck him. "Wait, Alicia. Did you say you'd seen Ainsley Waters?"

Her smile turned almost devious. "Why? Is Ainsley just irresistible to _all_ the Captains?"

"All the Captains" no doubt included himself and Cedric Diggory, and probably Roger Davies as well. But then… "Flint's not been after her, has he?"

Alicia shrugged. "I don't know, Oliver. I should hope not, though." She shuddered—understandably, as Marcus Flint was hardly a heartthrob. "Why do you care so much, anyway?"

"I don't. I just—" He realized then that there was really no way to extract himself from the mess, so he didn't even try. "Ainsley's father wanted me to give her this," he said, pulling the parchment out of his pocket. "Would you mind…?"

"Oh, of course," said Alicia, as she stepped back toward him and took the parchment. No sooner had he released it from his grip than she cried out and dropped it onto the floor. "Ouch! What _was_ that?"

"Probably a trick of her father's," Wood replied with a laugh. "I'll have to find her myself, I guess."

"D'you want me to send her down here?"

The real question was, did he want to see Ainsley Waters before he absolutely had to? "That's all right, Alicia. I'm sure I'll see her later."

Alicia nodded and left the compartment without another word—probably just as well, as Wood wasn't much in the mood for a prolonged conversation, anyway. No, the only thing on his mind was Quidditch—and specifically finishing the last of his new plays before he had to deal with any further interruptions.

If the rest of the team were _half_ as dedicated as he was, Gryffindor would be able to win the Quidditch Cup in their sleep.

* * *

By the time the train reached Hogwarts, however, Wood didn't _feel _dedicated to Quidditch. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact that no sooner had he finished with his stack of plays, than Fred and George Weasley had descended upon his compartment, making it absolutely impossible to concentrate. Then, of course, there had been the business of the dementors, which was the subject of many whispered conversations around him.

Most notably, though, his Quidditch teammates seemed to be thinking and talking about anything and everything but the game. As they entered the Great Hall, he heard Katie Bell chattering away about a trip to France, Alicia and Angelina hanging on her every word. Surprisingly enough, Wood found himself joining the conversation. "So then you had a good summer, Katie?"

Katie stared at him for a few seconds, her eyebrows nearly at her hairline. "It was wonderful, Oliver," she finally said, cautiously. "I'll be more than ready for the Quidditch season, if that's what you're asking."

"I was _asking_ if you'd had a good summer," he replied. "Don't see why I can't talk about something other than Quidditch."

Angelina looked at him oddly. "Are you feeling all right, Oliver?"

"Why would _you_ want to talk about something other than Quidditch, anyway?" Alicia asked.

"You _must_ have your eyes on the Quidditch Cup this year," Katie chimed in.

He grinned. "Doesn't it already have Gryffindor's name on it? We're the best ruddy team in the school. Once we start practice, and—"

"That sounds like the Oliver we know," said Angelina, with a laugh. "Alicia says you've got some fantastic plays for us."

"Alicia wouldn't know," he replied. "She's only seen my decoy play. You'll see them all together."

Angelina and Katie both glared playfully at Alicia, and Wood smiled at the trio before stepping around them on his way to the Gryffindor table. Yes, Gryffindor _would_ win the Quidditch Cup this year. And yes, he _would_ focus every available facet of his mind on Quidditch.

"Hello, Oliver!"

He turned at the chorus of voices to see a group of sixth-year girls from his own house—he recognized their faces, but couldn't even guess their names—waving at him. He graced them with a small smile, feeling his stomach turn as they erupted into giggles. They sat near one end of the table, and he moved to the opposite end, hoping he didn't look too obvious. He just wasn't in the mood to make idle conversation with people he didn't really know.

"Isn't it just an awful pain to be popular?"

For a second, Wood thought he might have inadvertently sat beside Percy Weasley. Naturally, it was a great relief when he realized the shock of red hair belonged to not Percy, but George. "I wouldn't know, George. I'm not that popular."

He grinned. "Sure you are, Oliver. Everyone knows the Quidditch Captain. Shame you don't know any of them, really."

"I know them," he protested.

Fred, on the other side of George, laughed. "No you don't, Oliver. You know the Quidditch teams, and that's really about it. I'd bet you can't name more than twenty other students in all of Hogwarts."

Wood wanted to argue that, but there was really no point. To be honest, he really _didn't_ know many students outside of the four Quidditch teams. Then again, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. "Would you rather I spent more time meeting the other students, and less time drawing up Quidditch plays? Maybe you'd like to lose the Quidditch Cup again this year."

They both looked positively horrified at that. "No, keep your mind on Quidditch," Fred said quickly. "We'll win the Cup this year, Oliver. I'm sure of it."

"Are you three talking about Quidditch _again_? Honestly, it's like you never talk about anything else."

Wood turned at the familiar voice, his heart sinking a bit as he realized that this shock of red hair _did_ belong to Percy Weasley. He liked Percy well enough, of course, but judging from the Head Boy's pompous smile, he'd have a better time sitting next to Marcus Flint. At least the Slytherin Captain would be good for an exchange of insults. "Hello, Percy," he said dryly. "D'you want us to talk about something else, then?"

Percy stuck out his chest a bit, his Head Boy badge catching the light as he did so. Wood noticed that he still hadn't realized it read _Bighead Boy._ "Anything, Oliver, so long as it's not Quidditch. I've heard more than enough from my brothers this summer."

"Then why don't you tell us about making Head Boy?" Fred asked.

"Oh, yes," George chimed in. "_Do_ tell us. We've heard so little about it."

Percy looked mildly annoyed at that. "You're just jealous. Really, Oliver, don't _you_ think Head Boy is an accomplishment?"

There was really nothing Wood hated more than playing mediator to an argument between the Weasley brothers. Before he could say anything to put a stop to the quarrel, however, George jumped in. "You _do_ realize you're speaking to the Quidditch Captain, Perce?"

"And you _do_ realize this is his third year as Captain?" Fred added.

"And you two _do_ realize that some things are more important than Quidditch?" Percy snapped.

"Not many," Fred mumbled. "Don't you agree, Oliver?"

Caught between Percy's glare, and the twins' beseeching grins, Wood wasn't really sure what to say. Fortunately, he didn't have to say anything, because the conversation was cut short by the arrival of the first-years. The entire Great Hall fell silent, in anticipation of the Sorting Ceremony.

Halfway through the ceremony, George leaned over to Wood. "You _do_ agree with Fred, though?"

"'Course I do," he whispered back. "Just didn't want to say so with Percy glaring at me like that."

George grinned. "So you're scared of the Head Boy, eh?"

"No, I—"

"Quiet, you two!" hissed Percy, from across the table.

Chastened—or at least pretending to be—they both sat back silently and watched the Sorting Ceremony. It _was_ interesting, to a degree, although one could argue that it hadn't been _really_ interesting since two years ago, when Harry Potter had become a Gryffindor. Now, it was just typical—sunny, gentle-looking children became Hufflepuffs, bookish ones Ravenclaws, slimy little brats Slytherins, and the rest Gryffindors.

At least, that was the way Wood always thought about it, even if it wasn't entirely true. It was just that members of the other houses were generally distinguishable just by appearance—one would never take a Hufflepuff for a Slytherin, for instance. Gryffindors, though, were nearly impossible to pick out by appearance alone (unless, of course, it was one of the Weasley siblings). But somehow, they all seemed to end up right where they belonged. And _that_ was why the Sorting Hat was absolutely invaluable.

"Oi! Oliver!" Fred's voice pulled him back to reality. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Wood looked at the table, surprised to see that the dishes before him had already filled with food. Apparently, he'd missed all of Professor Dumbledore's speech. "Sorry, I…I wasn't paying attention."

"We noticed," said Fred, reaching for some potatoes. "Did you hear Dumbledore?"

Wood sighed. It was best to answer honestly, really. "Not at all. Was there anything important?"

"Dementors guarding the school," George replied. "And we've got two new teachers."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts?" he asked. That was a reasonable guess, as recently Hogwarts hadn't been able to keep that position filled for more than a year.

Percy nodded. "Professor Lupin, up there." He pointed to a man Wood didn't recognize. "And Hagrid's teaching Care of Magical Creatures, but you don't take that, anyway."

"And Harry's here," George added.

"'Course he is. He's been here two years, already."

George shook his head. "No, Oliver, I mean—" He broke off with a sigh. "Never mind. I'll never get it through to you, anyway."

Normally Wood might have argued a comment like that, but right now he was just a little too hungry. He hadn't even served himself, he realized, so he made quick work of filling his plate. Rather, he made quick work of filling his plate, until a familiar dish caught his eye. "What's this? Haggis?" He glanced at Percy, who shrugged. "Well, it _is_ haggis, Perce. But we've never had it at the welcome feast before. What's it doing here?"

"Maybe someone asked for it," Fred mumbled around a bite of pork chop.

George snickered. "Don't be daft, Fred. Who would ask for _haggis_?"

"I would," Wood muttered.

"And so would I."

Wood looked up from his plate, directly into the gaze of a blonde girl who seemed unsettlingly familiar. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, I'd ask for haggis, Oliver." She smiled. "Actually, I _did_ ask for haggis. I've had enough pasta over the summer to last me two lifetimes. Wanted something good and Scottish, for a change."

It was her words, more than her appearance, that made it click in his mind. "Ainsley? Is that you?"

Beside him, Fred and George burst out laughing. "'Course it's her, Oliver," Fred managed to sputter. "You mean to say you don't recognize your own neighbor?"

Wood glared at him, prepared to make a snappy retort, but it was Ainsley who spoke first. "Sod off, Fred. He'd recognize me if I'd spent any of the holiday at home. Wouldn't you, Oliver?"

"I—I—of course I would have," he stammered. "If you'd been home, I—well—you've grown up, Ainsley."

That much was certain. Ainsley Waters _had_ grown up. Gone was the short child with the brown braid he'd tugged on throughout their childhood. Gone was the girl who could handle a broom better than her own two feet, but who couldn't play Quidditch worth a damn. Gone was the brat who'd spent most of the past four years avoiding him—and the rest of it cursing his very existence.

In her place was a confident, self-assured young woman who'd traded in her waist-length brown braid for shorter blonde curls, and who had acquired a considerable amount of poise—and who, most amazingly, was smiling at him. Clearly, the summer in Italy had agreed with her, because he was now looking at a completely different Ainsley Waters. She was mature, and polished, and graceful, and—

Well, perhaps not _graceful_, he decided, as Ainsley reached for the potatoes and accidentally knocked her goblet of pumpkin juice into Percy's lap. Percy swore and leapt to his feet, and Ainsley covered her mouth to hide her smile. "Oh, Percy, I'm _so_ sorry! I honestly don't know what happened!"

Percy sat back down with a sigh. "It's all right, Ainsley. They'll dry."

Across the table, George smiled. "Maybe we—"

"No, George," he interrupted crossly. "No magic. Not from _you_."

Wood laughed. "Then what if I—"

"Not from you either, Oliver. If I trusted your spell work, I'd probably have two heads by now."

"Or a broomstick up your arse," George muttered.

"You mean to match the one he's already got?" Fred asked innocently.

Wood honestly didn't mean to laugh at that, but he did—and almost succeeded in snorting pumpkin juice through his nose and all over the table. As it was, he very nearly choked, and it was only after a prolonged coughing spell that he was able to regain his composure. Percy glared at him, clearly annoyed, but when Wood looked to the place beside the Head Boy, he caught sight of Ainsley's wicked smile.

Then, before he'd really thought about it, he found himself smiling back.

* * *

It wasn't until he returned to his dormitory that Wood remembered the letter from Ainsley's father. "Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, pulling the parchment out of his pocket. "I can't believe I forgot this."

"Forgot what?" asked Percy, as he unpinned his Head Boy badge and placed it on his nightstand.

"Mr. Waters asked me to take this letter to Ainsley," he replied. "I meant to give it to her tonight, at the feast."

"Can it wait until morning?"

Wood shrugged. "If it could, I'm sure he would have sent it by owl. I really should have given it to her at the feast." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I was a bit distracted by a certain Head Boy with stained pants."

Percy shook his head. "As if that was _my_ fault, Oliver. If you ask me, Ainsley deserves to have that letter kept until breakfast."

"It's not her fault I forgot, you know."

He sighed. "I know. Would you like me to take it to her?"

"You can't. I already asked Alicia Spinnet to do it, but her father's put some sort of charm on it. Can't pass between anyone but myself and Ainsley."

"I wonder why?" Percy mused. Then he sighed again. "Fine, Oliver. Fine. Take the letter to the girls' dormitory. But if Professor McGonagall hears about this…"

"I know," Wood replied tiredly. "Then we'll both be expelled."

That wasn't true, of course. Professor McGonagall most likely _wouldn't_ find out, unless Percy himself told her. Even if she _did_ find out, she wouldn't do much more than cut a few points from Gryffindor. But if it gave Percy some sort of satisfaction to pretend he was putting them both in grave danger, Wood was perfectly happy to indulge him.

So Oliver Wood found himself heading into an area of Gryffindor Tower he'd never once entered in all his years there—the girls' dormitory. Actually, he'd barely opened the door to the staircase before he saw Angelina Johnson skipping down the staircase toward him. She stopped short when she caught sight of Wood, staring at him as though he'd just fallen out of the sky. "Oliver. You _are_ aware that this is the girls' dormitory?"

"Sod off, Johnson, or you'll start Quidditch drills tomorrow."

"And how exactly would you explain _that_ to Professor McGonagall?" She laughed lightly, skipping down the rest of the steps to stand in front of him. "What brings you here, anyway?"

"Ainsley." He held out the roll of parchment. "Her father asked me to bring this up. I completely forgot about it at the feast."

"And Percy let you break the rules?" She laughed again. "You can't go upstairs, Oliver. It'll just ruin the staircase, and then I'll never get back to my room."

Wood, who'd never even entertained the thought of visiting the girls' dormitory, suddenly began to understand just _why_ he'd never visited. "Ruin the staircase?"

"Well, yeah. The steps all melt together, and then no one can get up. It's an old rule…I think it's been here since the school was founded." She shrugged. "I'll just…if you want, I can just go get her for you."

Angelina didn't even wait for a reply before she turned and jogged back up the steps. Not even a minute later, he heard several sets of footsteps descending the staircase, and before he knew it, five female faces were staring down at him. Obviously Angelina hadn't mentioned who was being summoned, or _why_, because the other four girls looked completely shocked.

Alicia was the first to regain her composure. "Hello, Oliver. Come to bring us the schedule for Quidditch practice?"

"Actually, I'm here for Ainsley." He thrust the parchment in her general direction. "Your father wanted me to give you this, and with all the commotion at he feast…"

"I don't blame you," she replied evenly. "I would have forgotten, myself."

"What happened at the feast?" Katie asked.

Brenna snickered. "Didn't you see Ainsley drop that goblet of pumpkin juice in Percy Weasley's lap?"

Katie stared at Ainsley in disbelief. "That was _you_?"

"None other," Ainsley said softly, blushing just a bit. She stepped around Katie, skipped down the last few steps toward Wood—and tripped over the last one, landing in a heap on the floor. "Bloody hell," she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face. "Didn't see _that_ one coming."

Wood looked down at the disheveled witch at his feet, trying not to laugh. "Are you all right, Ainsley?"

"I'll be just fine," she replied, with a bit of a giggle. "No need to see Madam Pomfrey just yet, although I'm sure she _has_ missed me. Likely I've spent more time in the hospital wing than any other student, except maybe Harry Potter. And the Petrified students last year, of course. But do you suppose they count, if they weren't conscious?"

As she'd spoken, she pulled herself to her feet and smoothed her clothing back into some semblance of its original state. Wood had just stared at her dumbly, and continued to do so for several seconds after she finished. "I—well—I—" he finally stammered, and then broke off with a sigh, holding the letter out to her once more. "Here. I'll just be going."

"No, stay. I'm sure he has something to say to you." Ainsley perched on the arm of a nearby chair and unrolled the parchment. "Here it is, right at the beginning: 'Dear Ainsley, first off, thank Oliver for delivering this. I hope it reached you faster than owl post.'" She stopped reading and smiled up at him. "You see? He'll say more, I'm sure."

"No doubt of that," he murmured, still a bit taken aback by her friendliness. This was, after all, the girl who'd spent the last four years of her life avoiding him at all costs. "Are you going to keep reading?"

"Oh, but it's such a pain…" She sighed and dropped her eyes back down to the parchment. "'Hope you arrived safely…tell me all about Italy…Sirius Black…_do_ take care…' Oh! Here: 'Wish your Chasers and Beaters the best of luck, although with their skill, the luck might not be necessary. Tell Oliver we're all hoping for a fantastic season out of him, and remind everyone to keep a watch on that Seeker.' What do you suppose he means by that?"

"He asked me to look out for Potter earlier today," replied Wood. "Just before he reminded me to look out for you, actually."

If anything could make Ainsley bristle, that comment would certainly have done it. She didn't react, though; she simply yawned softly. "Right. Well, we should really be asleep by now, shouldn't we? Good night, Oliver."

"Good night," he said. "Oh, and Ainsley?"

"Yes?"

"D'you think I could see that letter sometime?"

"I'll have to translate it for you," she replied, through another yawn. "It's written in runic letters, you know."

"I didn't know you could actually _write_ in runic letters," he mumbled.

Ainsley allowed a short laugh to escape her lips. "Oliver, don't you _take_ Ancient Runes?"

"Yeah, and I'm lucky to pass it every year. My marks were abysmal, last year."

"That's a shame," said Ainsley. "It's a fascinating subject. Not nearly as wretched as Charms or Divination. And for the record, you _can_ write in certain runic alphabets, if you're someone who likes to go to all the trouble. And my father does—he thinks of it as a sort of puzzle."

Wood couldn't remember the last time that Ainsley had been so talkative. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time she'd said more than five words to him in a pleasant tone. Naturally, he wasn't about to let this encounter turn sour. "Right. Well, I should be off, really. Good night, ladies."

"Good night, Oliver," they chorused, as he disappeared into the boys' staircase.

Admirably, they restrained their giggles until the door swung closed behind him.

* * *

"Ainsley Waters has certainly grown up, hasn't she?" Wood asked Percy, after he'd returned to their dormitory.

Percy stared at him for a few seconds, his expression nothing short of confused. "Ainsley Waters is an annoying little twit, Oliver. She's no more mature than my brothers."

"You're just saying that because she spilled pumpkin juice in your lap," he muttered, flopping onto his bed. "It _was_ an accident, Perce."

"Accident or not, that girl hasn't changed."

"But she has," he said softly. "She…I don't know what it is, Perce, but there's something different about her. She's grown up."

"If you ask me, she's the same as always," Percy muttered, climbing into his own bed. "Irresponsible and uncooperative, and did I mention immature?"

"Once or twice," he said softly. "What've you got against her, anyway?" 

Percy didn't reply for a moment. Then he sighed. "Did you know they wanted to make her a prefect? And she _refused_?" He probably thought her insane for refusing such an _honor_, Wood figured. "Said she didn't think she was right for it, or something like that."

Wood thought that was actually the most mature and responsible decision Ainsley could have made, but he didn't have a chance to say so before Percy spoke up again. "Why do you care about her, anyway? Haven't you already got enough to worry about, with the Quidditch team and school?"

"Of course I have," he replied crossly. "I never said I _cared_ about Ainsley. She's always been a bit of a brat to me, anyway."

"She's always been a bit of a brat to everyone, Oliver. Don't waste your time trying to become her friend. She's had her mind set about you for a long time."

Wood sighed heavily, chewing on that piece of information for a while. "Good night, Percy," he finally murmured, drawing the curtains around his bed.

Percy was right—Ainsley Waters had made up her mind about him a long time ago. She thought he was bothersome and stifling, and he was sure there had been more than a few moments in her life that she'd downright hated him. And he didn't know if that was set to change anytime soon.

Of course, she'd been more than friendly in the Great Hall, and then again in her dormitory. And something about the smile they'd exchanged at the banquet made him wonder if maybe she _did_ think differently of him. He almost hoped she did.

Almost, until he realized that this was most definitely _not_ how he should be spending his time. His free time was to be dedicated solely to Quidditch. Ainsley Waters was nothing but a distraction.

At this point, the last thing he needed was a distraction.


	2. Chapter Two

****

Chapter Two

Ainsley Waters, for the record, did not hate Oliver Wood.

She'd never hated him, really, not in all the years they'd known each other (which, for Ainsley, had been her entire life). Wood had, in many ways, been the older brother she'd never had—or particularly _needed_. He'd behaved like a brother, at least, alternately pestering her to no end and protecting her from the outside world (something Ainsley found unbelievably bothersome). As a child, he'd annoyed her, and as a teenager, he'd stifled her. But she'd never actually _hated_ him.

Of course, that wasn't to say she'd ever been his friend, because she hadn't. Their relationship had been civil at best, and volatile at worst. Really, it was only because their families were so close that they'd ever had a relationship to speak of.

Now, though, it seemed to Ainsley that everything had changed. She wasn't sure if that was true, but it certainly felt like it. Wood didn't seem quite so annoying as he had been the last time she'd seen him, and somehow, she had the distinct impression that she could easily become his friend—and that she might actually _want_ to become his friend.

She wasn't entirely sure if it had been herself or Wood, although she would have bet (with a fair amount of certainty) that most of the changes had been her own. When she thought about it, Wood didn't really seem any different than he'd been since she'd entered Hogwarts. The difference had really been in her reaction to him.

Perhaps she _had_ grown up in Italy. She didn't really feel like she had, but it was always harder to see changes when they occurred inside oneself over a period of time. It was probably much easier for everyone else to see.

In fact, that had been one of Wood's first comments to her—after he'd collected his jaw from the floor, at least. Maybe that was why he'd seemed ever so slightly different since then. And maybe _that_ was why she'd been more inclined to treat him more as a friend, and less as an annoying older brother.

Or maybe their relationship was changing through no interference of their own. Perhaps it was just natural that, after some time, they'd learn to appreciate each other as adults. Perhaps it was inevitable that they'd become friends at some point.

Ainsley wasn't sure how much she believed _that_, really. But the fact remained—she and Oliver Wood now had a different sort of relationship than they'd had before.

And that most certainly meant that everything in her life was about to change.

* * *

After the girls returned to their dormitory that night, Ainsley found herself faced with four very shocked expressions. Then Alicia started to giggle. Then Brenna started to giggle. And _then_ Katie and Angelina started to giggle.

Ainsley, honestly, had no tolerance for it. "What?" she asked crossly.

Angelina managed to stifle her laughter for a few seconds. "What was _that_ about?" she asked.

"What was what about?" she asked innocently.

"Oliver Wood came here—tried to come into the _girls'_ dormitory—to give you _that_." She pointed at the letter in Ainsley's hands.

Ainsley folded the parchment in half, creasing it between her thumb and forefinger. "He came to give me a letter from my father. I haven't seen my father in eight months. I don't think that's unreasonable."

"Not for Oliver, maybe," Katie said, finally sobering a bit. "He's always cared for you."

"But _you_, Ainsley," Angelina piped up. "You've never liked him in the slightest."

"And yet, here you were, just…_talking_ to him," Alicia added.

"Talking _at_ him," Angelina corrected. "I don't think he got two words in."

"Because he was so shocked," Katie said. "You've never been so friendly, Ainsley. What's got into you?"

Feeling a bit like she was under interrogation, Ainsley turned helplessly to Brenna. Her friend only shrugged. "They're right, Ains. I've never seen you smile so much at anyone, least of all Oliver Wood."

"Well, I haven't seen him all summer," she said, wondering idly if that could be considered any sort of excuse.

Apparently, it couldn't. "You've always come back to Hogwarts complaining that you saw entirely too much of Oliver," said Alicia. "You spend one summer away from Scotland, and suddenly he's your best friend? Ainsley, that just doesn't make any _sense_."

"Yes, it does," protested Ainsley weakly, although she didn't know exactly _why_ it made sense. Or _if_ it made sense, for that matter. "_I_ understand it perfectly."

"That's a lie, if I've ever heard one," Brenna muttered. "You're just as confused as the rest of us."

"No, I'm not."

Katie smiled knowingly. "Right. So if you understand so well, you won't mind explaining it to the rest of us?"

Ainsley sighed. This wasn't the type of conversation she needed to have right now—not when she was so tired, and especially not when she didn't fully understand what had happened between herself and Wood. "I don't mind, so long as you let me explain it in the morning. I'm just too tired to worry about it tonight."

Surprisingly, all four of her friends seemed to accept that. Maybe that was because they were just as tired as she was. Or maybe they really _did_ understand that she needed some time. Ainsley didn't know exactly what their reasoning was. But one thing was almost painfully clear.

She had a _lot_ of thinking to do tonight.

* * *

There was no worse feeling than waking up late on the first day of classes.

Ainsley, who had never been late for anything in her life, came to that horrifying realization when she opened her eyes the next morning to complete silence—and then opened the curtains on her bed to find that her four roommates had already left the dormitory.

Most likely, they'd made so much noise that they'd fully expected to wake her up—and when she hadn't woken up, they'd just assumed she'd already left. It had really happened often enough in previous years to make that a safe assumption.

Of course, Ainsley wasn't worried much about safe assumptions at the moment. Her only focus was getting ready—and quickly, because she didn't have the slightest clue of her course schedule. They'd be handed out at breakfast, and if she didn't get to the Great Hall soon, she'd miss breakfast entirely—and most likely her first class, as well.

It was that panic, more than anything else, that propelled Ainsley that morning. She'd never moved especially quickly before lunch, but today was a notable exception—she was completely ready for the day in less than ten minutes. At least, she guessed it was less than ten minutes. She didn't have a clock to check that estimation.

She straightened her school robes and grabbed her schoolbag from the floor beside her bed, checking quickly to make sure it still held her textbooks. It did, in addition to the essays she'd been assigned over the summer holidays. There was really no telling what class she'd have first, and she didn't want to be caught unprepared.

The common room was empty, and so was the hall outside the portrait hole. She'd expected as much, considering that everyone was supposed to be in the Great Hall (or worse yet, already in class). But it was still a bit of a shock that she was the last student to leave Gryffindor Tower.

Ainsley made her way toward the Great Hall at a run—which worked well enough in the halls, but was a bit of a problem on the staircases. They were difficult to navigate, anyway, and the added difficulties of her quickened pace and her poor sense of balance were sure to cause problems.

And they did. The last staircase, as if sensing her haste, gave a particularly violent shake as she reached the middle step, and Ainsley lost her footing and tumbled down the remaining stairs. She closed her eyes tightly, mentally preparing herself for a painful crash onto the hard floor—and was surprised to find herself landing instead in a strong pair of arms.

She opened her eyes cautiously, breathing a silent sigh of relief when she realized she'd been caught by a fellow Gryffindor. She raised her eyes to his, only to find herself pleasantly surprised yet again. "Oliver. Hello," she said, still in a bit of a daze.

"Hello, yourself." Wood set her back on her feet. "Lucky I was there to catch you."

She nodded, smiling. "It _was_ lucky. Thank you." He didn't return the smile. "Oliver, I—"

"I'm sorry, Ainsley, but I've really _got_ to get to class," he interrupted, charging past her and up the staircase.

Ainsley stared after him for a few seconds, thoroughly confused by his odd behavior—before she realized that if _he_ had to get to class, then so did she. The only trouble was, she didn't know what her first class _was_.

Fortunately, a fourth-year Gryffindor passed her at just that moment. "Excuse me," said Ainsley, catching the girl by her sleeve, "have you seen Brenna Thompson, by chance?" It was safest to ask for Brenna, because they had every class together.

The girl nodded. "Fifth years have Potions this morning. I think she's already gone down to the dungeon."

"The dungeon. Potions. Snape." Ainsley could barely take it all in. "Am I late, then?"

"You've got—" She checked her watch. "—three minutes."

"Bloody hell," Ainsley muttered, taking off at a run. "Thank you!" she called over her shoulder.

Three minutes was hardly enough time to reach the dungeon—and Professor Snape was notoriously cruel to tardy students. If by some miracle she managed to reach the dungeon before class started, he'd still notice that she was the last in the room—and being a Gryffindor, that most likely wouldn't go over too well.

Her only glimmer of hope came from the fact that Snape, for some reason, didn't seem to hate her as much as he hated the rest of Gryffindor. That, and he absolutely despised the Slytherins in her year (she assumed they'd have double Potions together, as they had for the four previous years), so his notorious favoritism wasn't likely to make an appearance.

Still, Ainsley knew Snape wouldn't take well to tardiness (she didn't blame him, really), so she made her way to the dungeon as quickly as possible. She flat out sprinted the last stretch into the classroom—Snape hadn't called the class to order yet, so there was still a chance of making to her cauldron undetected.

At least, there _would_ have been a chance of making it to her cauldron undetected, if her shoe hadn't caught a slick patch on the floor. Instead of reaching her cauldron out of breath, but still standing, she landed twenty feet away, in an ungraceful heap at Lee Jordan's feet.

"Ainsley!" he exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Several other students looked over curiously. Snape, meanwhile, regarded her almost without interest. "Miss Waters, if you'll kindly refrain from giving the floor a further buffing, and please find your desk, I won't be forced to take points from Gryffindor this early in the term."

She was almost certain it was an empty threat, as she hadn't lost a point for Gryffindor in Potions since her first year, but that didn't stop her from scrambling to her feet and hastening to her station, dropping her bag at the table beside Fred Weasley. They'd sat beside each other since the year before, when Snape had finally grown tired of Fred and George's antics and had separated the twins. Fred grinned at her. "Nice of you to drop in, Ains."

"I overslept," she hissed back at him.

"Since when have _you_ overslept on a school day?"

"Sometimes it can't be helped," she replied. She didn't want to tell him that she'd overslept because she'd stayed up half the night trying to sort out what had happened with Oliver Wood—or that the other girls probably hadn't woken her up because they'd assumed she was avoiding questions on that subject. "Maybe I'm just not used to the time change. Italy's an hour behind us, you know."

"Since you know _so_ much about Italy, Miss Waters, perhaps you'd like to use your cauldron to prepare a marinara sauce?" Snape asked loudly. A few of the Slytherins snickered, but he ignored them, keeping his piercing gaze on Ainsley. "I began class thirty seconds ago."

Ainsley gulped. Maybe Snape didn't hate her, but he still wouldn't hesitate to take points from Gryffindor for her disrespect. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what's gotten into me."

"Nor do I," he murmured. "See that it doesn't happen again."

"I won't," she replied, breathing a silent sigh of relief. Once again, quite inexplicably, she'd managed to evade punishment—and from the person least likely to be lenient.

"And Miss Waters?"

She looked up again. "Yes, sir?"

"You _do_ have your essay?" he asked.

Ainsley nodded and reached into her bag, pulling out the rolls of parchment. "Sorry, Professor. I was just so concerned with getting here that—" 

"One day, Miss Waters," interrupted Snape, "you'll find that not everyone is willing to hear your excuses." He swept toward her desk and took the parchment from her hands, pausing for a second to look her directly in the eye. "Fortunately for you, that day is not today."

Then he returned to the front of the classroom and began lecturing them—first on the O.W.L.s approaching at the end of the year, which would surely be a topic discussion in every class—and then on the Memory Potion he'd assigned for the day. Ainsley took several slow, deep breaths as she tried to focus on the lecture and stop her hands from shaking. For someone who'd never punished her much, Snape certainly _could_ instill fear easily. Fortunately, though, he still hadn't deducted points from Gryffindor.

Snape was mean, of course, sometimes bordering on evil (especially where Gryffindors were concerned), but somewhere along the way, he'd grudgingly admitted that yes, Ainsley _was_ a stellar Potions student. It was just something that came easily to her—not like Ancient Runes, which only made sense to her because she'd grown up with the subject. She was just naturally gifted with Potions, and even Snape hadn't been able to deny that. In fact, the odd sort of acceptance he'd given her had carried her surprisingly easily through the class that nearly everyone else in her house hated with a passion.

In fact, in the four years she'd spent at Hogwarts so far, she'd only cost Gryffindor points in Potions once—and that had been at the beginning of her first term, when she'd accidentally dropped a knife on Snape's foot. Since then, she'd learned to keep her hands steady, her wit sharp, and her mouth closed (during lectures, at least). It was easy enough, usually, and it had kept her out of trouble for four years.

Luckily, it had kept Fred out of trouble as well. Since he'd been seated beside Ainsley, he hadn't lost a single point in Potions. George, at a table with Angelina Johnson, had lost nearly fifty.

"So why _were_ you late?" Fred asked fifteen minutes later, as they measured ingredients for the Memory Potion they'd been assigned.

"Told you, I overslept." She added a pinch of newt eyes to a small bowl of frog brains, mashing them together quickly. "I had a lot on my mind last night."

"Rumor has it that Wood paid you a visit last night."

"He brought me a letter from my father," she replied. "Did you also hear I fell down the stairs?"

"Last night, or this morning?" He grinned at her shocked expression. "New travels fast around here, Ainsley. You know that."

"Somehow I'm not surprised you've been keeping track of my embarrassments, Fred," she muttered, dumping the contents of the bowl into her cauldron.

"They're only embarrassments if you're actually _embarrassed_," he retorted. "Though it seems a bit like Wood's been sweeping you off your feet, eh?"

"That's completely inappropriate, Fred. D'you have the rat spleens?"

He handed her the jar. "I didn't cut my half yet. Is it supposed to be lengthwise or crosswise?"

"Lengthwise." She slid the tip of her knife along the tiny spleen, neatly splitting it into two equal pieces. One went into Fred's cauldron, the other into her own. "If you need half of anything, it's best to cut lengthwise, you know. That way, you can be sure you didn't miss anything important."

"I don't remember asking you to teach this class, Miss Waters," said Snape from behind them.

Ainsley turned to face him, noticing that his black eyes held no real malice, which meant that she was safe—for the moment, at least. "Someone's got to teach it, sir," she said softly. "You weren't here, so I did my best."

Snape regarded her coolly for a few seconds. Then, just as she was wondering if she might actually be in trouble, he nodded brusquely. "Just don't forget the wormwood, Miss Waters. And watch your cauldron, Weasley."

Fred spun back around just in time to stop his cauldron from overflowing. Ainsley returned to her work more slowly, reaching blindly for the wormwood as she watched Snape cross the room to torment Brenna and Lee. "I just don't understand him," she murmured.

"Him?" Fred sighed, pressing the wormwood into her hand. "I don't understand _you_, Ainsley. If any other Gryffindor treated him the way you do, he'd have them expelled. Meanwhile, you're at the top of the class."

"That's because I'm good at Potions," she said softly.

"Maybe you're good at Potions, but that won't matter once Snape finally gets tired of your cheek. _Snape_, of all people. Ainsley, sometimes I wonder if you haven't gone mad."

She shook her head. "I haven't gone mad. I just…I don't really know."

"All the same," he murmured, "you might pretend you actually _like_ the class."

"Who's pretending?" She added the pinch of wormwood, giving the potion a good stir before she pulled her ladle out and set it aside. "This _is_ my favorite class, Fred."

* * *

After Potions came Charms, which Ainsley hated more than any other class at Hogwarts. Not because she was bad at it—it was, after all, nearly impossible to be bad at Charms—but because she thought it was boring and useless. Besides, she didn't like Professor Flitwick much.

Naturally, the feeling was mutual. Of course, she hadn't lost points for Gryffindor—yet—but Ainsley knew he disliked her. It was all too apparent in the way his genial expression seemed to harden ever so slightly every time he glanced her way.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Brenna asked, as they left the classroom.

"Oh, loads," muttered Ainsley. Brenna _would_ enjoy the lesson, of course; she always did, being a natural at Charms. Much the way Ainsley was with Potions, actually. "What's our next class, Brenna?"

"After lunch, you mean?" She pulled two schedules out of her bag, handing one to Ainsley. "That's your copy, by the way. I took it for you this morning."

"And thank you for that." Ainsley scanned the schedule quickly. "Looks like…oh, Herbology this afternoon. It's a double class again."

"Wonder if it'll be with Hufflepuff?" Brenna mused. It was a likely assumption, as it looked like their pairing hadn't changed from the year before.

"It _is_ with Hufflepuff," Alicia Spinnet piped up from beside them. "And you know what _that_ means?"

"Cedric Diggory," they chorused in unison.

By the time the girls reached the Great Hall, Katie and Angelina had joined them, and all five were talking excitedly about the prospect of spending yet another year in close contact with Cedric Diggory. Their excitement was understandable, really, as Cedric was one of the best-looking boys in the school—and one of the nicest, as well. Ainsley, in particular, already had a rather nice friendship with him.

"It's just too bad we can't take History of Magic with Hufflepuff, too," Katie said, as they sat down. "I could use the distraction from Professor Binns, sometimes."

Some ways down the table, George Weasley snickered. "Is Diggory really _that_ wonderful? I've always thought he was a bit thick. Doesn't talk much at all, does he?"

"He's _quiet_," Angelina snapped. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"It doesn't seem to be so important to you, Angie," Fred muttered.

Angelina pulled a face. "_Angelina_, Fred. And I don't much care what you think."

"I don't expect you should," he shot back.

Ainsley tuned out their banter and glanced at the rest of the table. Harry Potter and his friends had just come in, looking a bit serious about something. She thought she caught the word "Grim," which would make sense—Fred had mentioned something about third years having Divination that morning, and Professor Trelawney _was_ famous for seeing death omens.

Farther down at that end of the table sat the first and second years, which didn't interest her that much. What _did_ interest her, however, was turning back to her end of the table to realize that once again, she'd sat almost directly across from Oliver Wood.

He looked up almost as soon as her eyes fell upon him, and she smiled. "Hello, Oliver."

Wood nodded brusquely. "Ainsley."

"How were your classes this morning?" she asked.

"Fine," he replied. She noticed, with a little disappointment, that he didn't ask the same of her. Probably just distracted by the beginning of the term, she figured.

But when he still hadn't spoken, half a plate of stew later, she began to wonder if something was wrong. "Er…Oliver?"

"Ainsley, d'you think I could eat in peace?"

She sat back, thoroughly shocked at that. He hadn't been so cold the day before; in fact, he'd gone out of his way to bring her that letter the night before. Today, though, it seemed as though he wanted nothing to do with her. "All right, then. If you—"

"Ainsley," he snapped. "Honestly. Could I have one _second_ of silence?"

At the other end of the table, Hermione Granger snapped something at Ron Weasley and left the table in a huff. For a second, Ainsley almost wished she could do the same thing.

Instead, she just took a deep breath and returned to her stew, wondering what on earth she'd done to Wood.

* * *

Herbology, amazingly enough, turned out to be the high point of Ainsley's day.

Professor Sprout, after a fairly long lecture on the importance of the Herbology O.W.L., had assigned them to work with the wolfsbane plants, and Ainsley had been paired with Cedric Diggory. It was really the best thing that could have happened, because on top of being the envy of every girl in her class, she got to spend the hour with someone she genuinely liked. Besides, maybe he'd be able to help her figure out the Wood mess.

"I honestly don't know what to tell you, Ains," he said, when she brought it up. "I didn't think you were even friends with Wood."

"Oh, I'm not," she replied. "It's just that…well, he's never actually been short with me before. I'd almost think I did something to offend him."

"Well, did you?"

"No, of course I—" She stopped abruptly, her shears hovering above the flowers. "Unless this morning…"

He looked at her curiously. "What happened this morning?"

"I…I fell down the stairs." It sounded absolutely idiotic, and she flushed as soon as the words left her mouth. "The staircases hate me, you know, and I was late to class and running down the stairs, and I don't have the best sense of balance anyway—"

Cedric had been trying valiantly not to laugh, but he finally gave in, laughing so hard that he accidentally snipped a flower off the wolfsbane plant. It shuddered violently, and he gave the injured stem a firm pinch, still laughing a little. "You fell down the _stairs_, Ainsley?"

"It's happened before, you know," Fred called with a laugh, invisible behind the plant that separated their stations.

"Only twice," Ainsley replied.

"Twice since you've been back, you mean."

She opened her mouth to reply to that, but Cedric cut her off. "What's that got to do with Wood, anyway?"

Well, this was just getting more embarrassing by the second. If she trusted the wolfsbane not to kill her, she'd have buried her face in it. "He…er, actually, he caught me…"

"At the bottom, you mean? Before you hit the floor?" She nodded miserably. "Lucky he was there, Ains. You might have found yourself in the hospital wing even earlier than last year."

"I know," she murmured. The year before, she'd managed to hold off until October, when she'd dropped a cauldron on her foot and broken several bones. That had been followed by a number of spills and accidents that had, more often than not, landed her in one of the hospital beds—often alongside a Petrified student (which was disturbing, to say the least). This year, though, she was determined not to be the most accident-prone student in the school.

"Don't know why that should upset Wood, though," Cedric was saying. "Hasn't he always looked out for you?"

Ainsley nodded. "Always. To the point of annoyance, really." She sighed. "And that's what worries me. It's not…normal."

"Well, it _is_ the beginning of the term," he said. "And maybe he hasn't had the best day, either."

She nodded again and turned her attention back to the wolfsbane. Their conversation was as good as over, she decided—but then he spoke again. "Ainsley?"

"Hmm?"

"I thought you hated Wood, anyway. Why do you care so much whether he likes you?"

The plant beside them erupted into laughter again. Ainsley reached over and pulled aside two flowers to expose Fred's smiling face. "Something you'd like to share, Fred?"

"Only the reason you care so much about Wood," he replied.

"And that is…?"

He laughed. "That you're madly in love with him, of course."

Ainsley gaped at him for a second, trying to comprehend the sheer absurdity of what he'd just said. Then it fully hit her, and she closed her mouth and glared at him. "You're such a prat, Weasley." She released the flowers, letting them swing back toward his face, and turned back to Cedric. "He made that up, you know."

"I know," he said softly, although he sounded a bit dubious. "But you're _not_ in love with Wood, are you?"

"Of course not," she replied. "That's absolutely absurd. I don't even think we're friends right now."

Cedric nodded and returned his eyes—and shears—to the wolfsbane. Ainsley, too, resumed her work, throwing a curious glance in his direction as she did so. He'd certainly seemed interested in her relationship (or lack thereof) with Oliver Wood.

And sooner or later, she'd have to figure out why.

* * *

For years, Ainsley had shared a sort of breakfast tradition with Wood. Every morning, she received the _Daily Prophet_, and every morning he'd used a Summoning Charm to steal the sports section from her. She'd always pretended to be annoyed by it, but in reality, she'd enjoyed the familiarity of the routine more than she'd let on.

Now, with Wood not really acknowledging her existence, he certainly wasn't stealing her paper. Ainsley found that she missed the familiar call of "_Accio!_" almost as much as she missed Wood himself. And that was what prompted her to seek out Percy Weasley on Friday morning.

He'd already left the prefects' table, Penelope Clearwater by his side, and at first, he didn't seem to want Ainsley around at all. "I'm sorry, Ainsley," he said, "but I'm really in a bit of a hurry. Could we talk later?"

"Actually, I'd rather it was now," she replied. "Are you going to class? I could just walk with y—"

"I'm walking Penelope to class," he interrupted tiredly.

Thankfully, Penelope chose that moment to speak up. "Oh, Percy, don't worry about me. I'll be just fine on my own."

Ainsley smiled gratefully at the other girl. Penelope was so kind and generous, there was really no explanation as to what she was doing with a pompous git like Percy. "Thanks, Penelope. I wouldn't normally ask, but I'm afraid it's important."

"So what is it?" Percy asked, as they crossed the Great Hall together. "Come to your senses and decided to become a prefect after all?" He slowed as they passed the Gryffindor table. "D'you mind if I ask Oliver to walk with us?"

Of all people, he wanted her to walk with Oliver Wood. Ainsley almost couldn't believe it. "I'd really rather you didn't," she murmured. "It's about him, actually."

"Really?" Percy's eyes brightened a bit—probably with interest, she decided. "What's the problem?"

"I don't know, really," she said after a few seconds. "He hasn't really been speaking to me for the past few days."

"Did you talk to him about this?" Percy asked.

"No," she replied softly. That was typical Percy—always suggesting the most rational course of action, with no regard for the fact that his advisee might not be a confrontational sort of person. "He's not _speaking_ to me, Percy. How could I talk to him?"

"Well, you're talking to _me_," he muttered. "Isn't that just the same?"

"Are you always this impossible, or is it just me?" She sighed. "I only want to know if he's said anything about me, that's all."

Percy chewed softly on his lower lip, mulling over the question. Then he nodded. "Now that you mention it, Ainsley, he _did_ say that you've always been a bit of a brat to him."

"I know _that_," she replied. "Has he said anything else?"

"Well…no. But he _did_ mention that he cares more about the Quidditch Cup than any girl in this school. I'd guess that means he's not setting out to make new friends, especially with people who've never been friendly before." He shrugged. "That's all I know, Ainsley. Have a nice day."

Percy disappeared into a classroom, and Ainsley stared after him curiously. She couldn't take Percy's words as the absolute truth, really, as he'd never really seemed to like her. She had to admit, though, that he probably knew more about Wood's motives than anyone else did.

Still, he'd left her just as confused as she'd been earlier that morning. And that meant only one thing.

She was going to have to talk to Wood.


	3. Chapter Three

****

Chapter Three

By dinner on Friday, Ainsley was certain that if she was ever going to find out exactly what Wood's problem was, she'd have to talk to him. Of course, that could prove to be a problem, as he'd managed to avoid her since their encounter over lunch on the first day of classes.

Luckily, George Weasley offered his help before she'd even thought to ask him. "D'you want to talk to Oliver tonight?" he asked, as they walked together to the Great Hall.

"I think so," she replied, a bit too shocked at his question to wonder exactly how he knew there was a problem. "I just don't know…"

"Oh, he won't avoid you," he assured her. "Fred and I'll make sure of that, if you want."

"Would you?"

He nodded. "We'd be happy to. Just leave everything to us."

Ainsley knew better than to be reassured by that. Amazingly, though, George was true to his word; he and Fred cornered Wood at the Gryffindor table, sitting on either side of him and effectively trapping him in his seat. Ainsley, meanwhile, was able to slide into a seat between some seventh-year girls and Lee Jordan—a seat that, conveniently enough, was directly across from Wood.

George grinned at her, and she flashed him a grateful smile before looking at Wood. "Evening, Oliver."

"Evening," he mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

"How have your classes been so far?" she asked.

"The same as they were the first day," he replied flatly.

Well, that might have been a step above one-word answers, but it wasn't much. She glanced helplessly at Fred, who shrugged. On Wood's other side, George's expression matched his brother's, and she realized with a sinking feeling that neither Weasley would be able to help her.

Thankfully, before the silence could grow too uncomfortable, Lee Jordan spoke up. "Did you hear about Draco Malfoy, Wood?"

__

Everyone knew about Draco Malfoy's encounter with the hippogriff by now, but that didn't stop the twins from pouncing on the subject. "Miserable little git's been back from the hospital wing since yesterday, and he's still whining about his arm," Fred muttered. "From what I heard, he wasn't even that bad off."

"Not as bad as Harry was, when Madam Pomfrey had to regrow half his bones last year," George added. "I can't _believe_ they're letting Malfoy get away with this."

Wood glanced up at Ainsley. "So Malfoy beat you to the hospital this year, Ainsley? Lucky you weren't there with him, really."

"I know," she replied, barely able to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest with elation. Maybe things _were_ normal, after all, and she'd just been imagining his hostility over the past few days. "Thanks to you, Oliver. I really _do_ appreciate that."

"Don't mention it," he replied. Then his smile faded, and she could almost _see_ him mentally slapping himself. When he spoke again, his voice was sharper. "Watch those stairs from now on. I won't always be there to catch you."

"Lucky you were, though," she murmured, hoping she'd imagined his gruff tone.

He shrugged. "Likely it won't happen again."

No, she definitely hadn't imagined the tone. "Oliver…?"

Wood suddenly became very interested in the food on his plate. Ainsley, still a bit confused about what had just happened, managed to choke a bite of her meal. It was very nearly inedible—and through no fault of the house elves in the kitchen. It was more the tension at her end of the table that made her unable to swallow her dinner.

Oliver Wood, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with her. That shouldn't have bothered Ainsley at all; really, she should have been elated, because all she'd wanted since she'd entered Hogwarts was for Wood to leave her alone. But now that it had actually happened—now that he'd snubbed her so openly, just when she'd thought they might become friends—she wasn't the least bit elated. Actually, it made her completely miserable.

Ainsley was only able to force down three or four more bites of her dinner before it became too much. She was going to either vomit or cry, and she really didn't want to do either in the Great Hall. With tears beginning to blur her vision, and her stomach in a thousand knots, she pushed away from the table and walked blindly toward the door.

The second she left the Great Hall, the sense of panic left her, taking her nausea with it. Her tears, though, remained, spilling out of her eyes with increasing speed as she tried desperately to control them. She knew she really shouldn't be crying over something so stupid, and this issue with Wood _was_ stupid. But as hard as she fought her tears, they only fought back that much harder. Finally, she just gave in to them, letting them run down her face and completely blear her vision as she retraced the steps she knew so well to Gryffindor Tower.

Amazingly, no one seemed to have noticed her departure—or maybe no one really cared that she'd left. The more depressing of those two thoughts struck Ainsley halfway up the last staircase, and she raised her hand to her face to brush away the tears. They stilled for a moment, and she wiped briefly at her eyes as she continued up the stairs.

Or rather, as she _tried_ to continue up the stairs, for she'd inadvertently stepped directly into the trick step that everyone usually remembered to jump. She'd only done it once before, in her first year, but she remembered the experience well. As her leg was already imbedded almost up to her knee, there was really no way to free herself from the step; she'd have to wait for someone else to come along. Of course, considering her luck, that "someone else" would no doubt be the entire Gryffindor house returning from dinner.

So it was a great surprise when she heard a single set of footsteps on the stairs, not two minutes later. And it was a _very_ great surprise when she turned around and saw Oliver Wood walking up the stairs toward her.

She wiped hastily at the tears still rolling down her cheeks. "What are you doing here, Oliver?"

"I came after you," he replied. He looked concerned, she realized, as he approached her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm stuck in the stairs, Oliver. I'm stuck in the stairs, and you've been horrible to me all week, and I—" She stopped herself and took a shaky breath, trying desperately to keep her tone calm. "This has really been the worst week _ever_. All I want is to get my leg out of this stair and go back to my dormitory and forget any of this ever happened."

"Well, I can help you with part of that." He leaped lightly over the stair that still held her leg, then took hold of her arms and pulled her to the next step, which was blessedly solid. "There now. Is your leg all right?"

"It's fine," she replied glumly. "Now if I can just get back to the tower without anything else—Oliver, where are we going?"

Wood hadn't released her arm after he'd pulled her out of the stair, and he'd now led her up the staircase and in the opposite direction of Gryffindor Tower. He glanced at her in mild surprise. "You don't think it's time we had a talk, Ainsley?"

"No, I—no," she replied lamely. "I just…"

"We're not going back to the common room," he said softly, releasing her arm as they walked side by side down the hall. "Do you want Fred and George and that whole lot eavesdropping? Here, it's just you and me." A crash sounded somewhere nearby. "And…Peeves," he added weakly.

"And Peeves," she repeated. "I think I'd rather take my chances with all of Gryffindor."

"You say that now," he murmured. Then he sighed. "We haven't been here a week, Ainsley, and already it feels like a month. I don't know what's going on here."

"What do you mean?" she asked, feigning innocence.

Clearly, he didn't buy her attitude for an instant. "You know exactly what I mean, Ainsley. Look, I've really been a complete prat to you this week, and I'm sorry about that. And I'm sorry I made you cry."

"You didn't make me cry," she lied.

Wood stopped short, taking her arm again and turning her to face him. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that? By this point, everyone in the _school_ knows I made you cry."

"But do they know why?" she asked softly. "Do they, Oliver? Because I don't. I have no idea why you've been so cold and…and _hateful_ to me since classes started. And I think I deserve an explanation."

"I'm trying to _give_ you an explanation," said Wood. "If you'd only just listen to me—"

"I'm listening," she murmured.

"All right, then. I'm afraid it's not a very good explanation, but it's all I've got." He sighed heavily. "Ainsley, you know how I feel about Quidditch?"

"I'd have to be completely daft to not know how you feel about Quidditch, Oliver," replied Ainsley. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's got everything to do with it. This year is my last chance to win the Quidditch Cup, and I…"

"Oh." It was all starting to make sense now. Maybe Percy had been right, after all. "You want to focus everything you've got on Quidditch, you mean? No distractions?"

"No distractions," he repeated softly. "And then you came back. And I thought it'd just be the same as always, and it really wouldn't matter if I didn't pay you any attention, because that's what you've always wanted."

"And then I decided that maybe I wanted to be your friend after all," she finished dully. "But that would have been a _distraction_, wouldn't it? And if the great Oliver Wood took his mind off of Quidditch for _one second_, to make friends with a girl who'd always been a brat to—"

"Ainsley," he interrupted sharply. "You might do well to let me finish."

Ainsley sighed. "Then finish. Finish, Oliver. And I'll forget I ever thought we could be friends, and I'll let you focus on Quidditch." The tears were coming back to her eyes again, and she blinked a few times, hoping they'd go away. They didn't. "Just…just tell me you want nothing to do with me, and I'll leave you alone."

"But you've got it all wrong," said Wood, his voice gentle. "The problem isn't that I want nothing to do with you. It's that…well, I just can't understand that you'd want anything to do with me, really."

"And why's that?"

"You've always hated me, Ainsley. I just don't understand why you'd think any differently of me now, that's all."

Ainsley shook her head. "I never hated you," she murmured finally. "I suppose it's only that I didn't know _how_ to be your friend before. But when I came back, it felt like everything had changed, somehow. Maybe I was wrong about that, but—"

"No, it _has_ changed." He smiled cautiously. "You've grown up, Ainsley. Before I left home, your father asked me to look out for you, but…but I'm not so sure you need that anymore."

Slowly, she returned his smile. "Maybe that's it, Oliver. Maybe I don't need a protector anymore. Maybe what I need most is a friend. And maybe…maybe that's what you need, too."

"Could be," he said. "You don't think that's a distraction?"

"I'm not asking you to fall in love with me," she replied. "I'm only asking you to be my friend. And isn't that really the best kind of distraction?"

He nodded. "I think so. Fortuna major." For they'd somehow come around to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, and the Fat Lady had been waiting patiently for the password.

Ainsley crawled through the portrait hole, Wood just behind her, feeling lighter than she had all week. The common room, oddly enough, was still empty, which meant their conversation had taken considerably less time than she'd thought. She couldn't help smiling as she spun around to face Wood. "So that's that, then? We're all right?"

"I am if you are," he replied. Then, without warning, he'd wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him. "I'm glad we've got this worked out, Ainsley," he whispered into her ear.

She returned the hug, her smile growing impossibly brighter. "So am I, Oliver."

And so Ainsley, who had once wanted nothing more than to ignore Oliver Wood's very existence, became his friend.

* * *

Much to Wood's dismay, Professor McGonagall cornered him in the hallway on Monday morning. "Wood, might I have a word with you?" she asked.

He nodded silently, following her into her classroom. She returned to the chair behind her desk, and he stood nervously in front of her. "Is…is there a problem, Professor?"

"I don't know, Wood. Is there?" She eyed him carefully. "How does the Quidditch team look?"

"Just fine, as far as I can tell," he replied. "I won't know until we start practice in October, really, but we've got some new plays, and—well, you know Gryffindor has the best team in the school."

"I should hope so," she said. "I expect the team will be well-prepared for the first match?"

"Absolutely, Professor. Flint and Malfoy won't know what's hit them."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "Good. Good. Now, Oliver, we need to discuss your schoolwork."

Wood gulped, hoping it wasn't too audible in the classroom. School had always taken a bit of a backseat to Quidditch—always, since he'd joined the team. Now, though, in his final year, his classes were more important than ever. "My schoolwork, Professor? I suppose _that's_ the problem?"

"Of course not. You did well enough last year." She cleared her throat. "Except, of course, for Ancient Runes. I honestly don't know why you're so insistent on keeping the subject, Wood. You've struggled with that class since the day you set foot in it, and last year's marks were nothing short of abysmal."

Exactly how she knew that, he had no idea, but he couldn't deny that she was absolutely right. He'd only taken Ancient Runes because Mr. Waters had spoken so highly of it. Of course, it wasn't until a term too late that he realized how difficult the subject actually _was_—and then it was just too much trouble to drop it. "I suppose I'm just not destined for the study of Ancient Runes, then."

"I should hope not, Wood. Even Professor Trelawney might get _that_ prediction right." She sighed. "But I _do_ expect you'll take some extra instruction?"

If only things were that simple. "I've spoken with Professor Wilcox before, and he—"

"I know he can be difficult to deal with, Wood," interrupted Professor McGonagall. "I was actually thinking you might take some help from one of your fellow students."

"Are any of my fellow students good with Ancient Runes, Professor?"

She smiled. "It isn't my job to know that, Wood. You'll have to find out for yourself."

"All right, then." He nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

Halfway to the door, her voice stopped him. "And Wood?" He turned back to face her, surprised to see that her expression had softened. "You might do well to look beyond the seventh-years."

Wood nodded again, then left the classroom, even more confused than before. How would he ever find a student good enough at Ancient Runes to tutor him in the subject? And how could a younger student possibly help him?

* * *

Two days later, he found his answer.

Breakfast in the Great Hall had been lively, as per usual. Fred and George Weasley had nearly started a food fight before a stern glare from Professor McGonagall had sobered them. Now, they were just flicking small pieces of toast at each other.

Wood, seated between the twins and a group of seventh-years, and across from Ainsley and his three Chasers, was still thinking about Professor McGonagall's suggestion. He honestly couldn't think of anyone good enough with Ancient Runes to actually _tutor_ him in the subject—certainly not the other students in his class, as most of them had little more knowledge than he did.

Before he could think _too_ deeply on the subject, the post arrived. The owls flew into the Great Hall, and one dropped the _Daily Prophet_ at Ainsley's place, as usual. Wood reached across the table and snatched the sports page, but Ainsley didn't notice—actually, her eyes were still focused above, on a great tawny owl. "Haldir, you're back already?" she murmured.

Wood snickered at the name, and she arched an eyebrow at him. He shrugged. "What? _I_ didn't name my owl Haldir. Bloody stupid name, if you ask me."

"Clearly, you have no appreciation for literature," she replied coolly.

"Not Muggle literature."

Ainsley laughed. "Oliver, you've hardly read anything other than _Quidditch Through the Ages_. And the _Daily Prophet_—is your Quidditch news really _that_ important to you?" She reached for the paper, but he pulled it away just in time, grinning at her. "Fine, Oliver. I really don't care _what_ you read. I just hope you remember who paid for that paper."

Wood ignored her and continued to read the paper. Meanwhile, the owl—Haldir—landed gracefully on Ainsley's shoulder, extending his leg toward her. She deftly untied the parchment from his leg, then smiled at him and rubbed his beak affectionately. Haldir hooted softly, snagged a piece of toast from her plate, and took off again.

Ainsley unrolled the parchment, sighing as she scanned the words. "Oh, not _again_."

"What?" Fred asked, through a mouthful of porridge.

"He's written in Runes. Does this every bloody time—thinks it's some great _joke_. It's such an awful pain to translate." She took a bite of toast, chewing slowly as her eyes flicked over the page. "Oliver, you'll appreciate this: 'Dear Ainsley, I hope your second week at Hogwarts finds you better than your first week. I'm glad to hear you and Oliver are on better terms. We'd always hoped you two might become friends one day. Your mother sends her love, and love to Oliver as well.'" She looked up from the parchment, meeting Wood's smiling gaze. "You'd think they cared as much about you as they do about me."

"They do." He reached across the table and pulled the top of the parchment down, squinting at the upside-down characters. "You just read that? It's all in runic letters, Ainsley."

"That's what I said before, isn't it?" She sighed. "And it's only a loose translation, really. I always have to infer so much. But I suppose that's what happens when people insist on writing in another alphabet."

"At least it's not Greek," George offered. "That's bloody impossible."

"Can't you read Greek letters, George?" She glanced up at him, then looked back at the letter. "The Greek alphabet isn't so very different from our own, really. Runes are something entirely different."

"And completely hopeless," said Wood, sighing. "I still can't believe I thought I could handle the class. My N.E.W.T.s are going to be _awful_."

Ainsley gazed at him over the top of her parchment. "If you're falling behind, I'd be happy to help you. I really know a bit too much about the subject not to share it with anyone." She smiled. "Besides, I hear you're wonderful with Divination, and I just can't seem to grasp it."

Whether she really _was_ having problems with Divination, he didn't know. But it seemed like a fair enough trade. "All right, then. You'll help me with Ancient Runes, and I'll help you with Divination. How's that?"

"Brilliant!" She extended her right hand across the table. "Should we shake on it?"

"Of course." He folded his own hand over hers. "It's a deal, then."

"A deal," repeated Ainsley, smiling broadly.

Wood smiled back at her, not missing the incredible twist of fate that had just come into play. The week before, they hadn't even been speaking—and now their futures essentially rested in each other's hands. It really didn't take a psychic to see that there was something special about this relationship.

Then again, maybe it _did_ take a psychic. Or at least, an excellent Divination student.


	4. Chapter Four

****

Chapter Four

Ainsley rolled over for the fourth time in as many minutes, dropping her head onto the pillow with a heavy sigh. She couldn't sleep tonight, and she really had no idea why. The other four girls seemed to be having no problem, if their deep breathing was any indication.

Ten minutes later, she came to the slow realization that sleep wasn't coming anytime soon. She rolled out of bed, wrapped her bathrobe around her shoulders, grabbed the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook from her desk, and headed out of the room. There was no better remedy for insomnia than some considerably heavy reading in a considerably warm and silent room.

The common room was warm, as expected, but not entirely silent. The soft scratches of quill on parchment drew her attention immediately to a table in the corner, where Wood sat, working intently on something. For a second, she thought he was so absorbed in his work he hadn't noticed her, but then he looked up and smiled. "Hello, Ainsley."

"Hello, Oliver," she murmured, as he returned to his writing. "What're you doing?"

"Writing my parents," he replied. "D'you want me to add something from you?"

She sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, dropping the book into her lap and curling her legs up underneath her. "Just tell them I said hello. There's nothing urgent I need to pass on."

"There never is," he muttered. "You're up late, Ainsley."

"So are you," she retorted. "I thought you weren't spending any late nights in the common room this term, Oliver. Isn't that detrimental to your Quidditch game?"

"Quidditch hasn't started yet, and I needed to write this letter before my parents started to worry about me. I can't concentrate with half the house down here." He glanced up at her again. "What's your excuse?"

"Couldn't sleep," she murmured.

"So you thought you'd spend the night in the common room?" He laughed. "Sometimes I just don't understand you."

"Sometimes I don't understand myself," she replied. "No reason you should have to trouble yourself, Oliver. You've never troubled yourself before."

Wood paused, quill hovering over parchment as he gazed at her. "Oh, that's just not true."

"You're right; it's not. You troubled yourself to the point that sometimes I just wanted to _hit_ you."

"Lucky you didn't, or we might not be friends now."

"I think we might still be friends," she said softly. "It seems…destined, somehow, don't you think?"

He was silent for several seconds. Then he coughed lightly—or maybe nervously? She couldn't quite tell. "I can't say that for sure, Ainsley. It's not as though I really know anything about your destiny, after all."

"Aren't you the stellar Divination student, though, Oliver?"

"Doesn't mean I know a thing about your destiny," he replied. "Not without some sort of reading, at least. And I won't tempt the fates by pretending I _do_ know something."

"That's why you're so wonderful with Divination, and I'm awful at it, I reckon." She sighed heavily. "When d'you want to start trying to change that?"

"What about Saturday?" he asked.

"Not a problem for me. You don't have—" She stopped abruptly as she remembered what he'd said earlier, that Quidditch practices didn't begin until October. "Saturday, then. What time?"

He grinned at her. "Wouldn't dream of burdening you with a specific time, Ainsley. Let's try for after breakfast, yeah?"

"All right," she replied. He stared at her for a second, looking for all the world like he wanted to say something else, but then he just sighed and went back to his letter. Ainsley opened her textbook to the section on curses—which they weren't studying, thankfully, but which were more than enough to put anyone to sleep. A few minutes passed in relative silence (the only sounds being her page turning, Wood's writing, and the crackling fire), before she heard Wood fold and seal his parchment. Then he stood up and crossed the room to sit in the chair beside hers. "What're you reading about?"

"Curses." She yawned softly. "Needed something to put me to sleep."

"And History of Magic wouldn't have done that?"

"I want to _sleep_, Oliver, not _die_." Ainsley closed the book and looked up at him. "Don't know why I'm reading ahead, anyway. Lupin's more focused on practical lessons than book learning."

"That really goes for all of Hogwarts, doesn't it?"

"Everyone expect for Professor Binns," she replied.

"And Professor Wilcox," he added. "All we ever do is translate."

"Translation's rather useful, Oliver. Particularly when it comes to those old spell s we've lost along the way."

He laughed softly. "You only like Ancient Runes because your father's obsessed with it."

"And you only like Divination because you're a good liar," she shot back.

"Fair enough." Wood looked at her intensely for a few seconds, just long enough for her to find herself a bit nervous under his gaze, before his expression brightened. "So tell me about Italy," he said.

Ainsley's eyebrows shot up, partly in surprise at the subject change, and partly because she'd never thought he'd want to hear about her summer. "I spent two months in Italy, Oliver," she finally said. "I don't think you'd want to hear it all."

He smiled. "Then tell me as much as you like. We can't just sit up all night, talking about nothing in particular."

"And why can't we?" she asked.

"Because I'd like to hear about your summer," he replied. "If you don't want to share, I'm sure I could get another version from someone else—"

"That's quite all right," interrupted Ainsley. "Someone else" could very well mean the Weasley twins, and there was just no telling what stories _they_ might come up with. "What d'you want to hear?"

"Everything," he said. "Or at least, everything you want to tell me. Just…start at the beginning."

"The beginning? Oh, but that would be when I _got_ to Rome, and—Oliver, are you sure you want to hear about all this?"

Wood smiled. "I'm sure. Never spent a summer apart from you, have I? Maybe I'd like to see how you fared."

"I fared quite well, thank you."

"So I see," he murmured, an expression she couldn't quite read passing over his face. "Well? What are you waiting for? I don't think you'll ever find an audience so willing again."

"All right, then." She traced back her memories to the end of the previous school year, smiling faintly as she did so. "Well, I suppose it started when the Hogwarts Express got back to London, and Aunt Fiona met me at the station—you might remember that, though, because you'd hardly left me alone that entire day."

Actually, he _did_ remember that—only vaguely, though. He'd been a bit concerned with finding his own family, but he remembered Fiona greeting him with a hug, as most of Ainsley's family did. "Right. And then what? You used floo powder?"

"Well, yes. But only because it's an awful pain to travel like Muggles from London to Italy." She shrugged. "Anyway, that took us straight to her flat in Rome, which is—oh, Oliver, have you ever been there?"

Wood, having never been to Italy at all, just shook his head.

"Well, you'll have to come with me, the next time I visit Aunt Fiona," said Ainsley. "Rome is…well, it's magical, for one thing. There are Muggles all over the city, and they never even seem to notice. It's almost as if…well, I suppose they _can't_ feel it, but—"

"Do you always ramble like this?" he asked. "Have I just not noticed before because you've been too busy ignoring me?"

"I've never _ignored_ you," she protested. "And I thought you wanted to hear all about Italy."

He nodded. "I do. So tell me."

So she did. She told him about the magic in the air—and not just in the air, but in the monuments, and the artwork, and especially the Vatican (because religion was really deeply rooted in magic, although Muggles tended to ignore that). She told him about the cities she'd visited outside of Rome—Venice, Florence, Milan, and at least fifteen smaller towns. She told him about the people she'd met—Italian Quidditch players, wizards and witches from across Europe, Beauxbatons students.

Actually, the only thing she didn't tell him about was Jean, the Beauxbatons boy with whom she'd spent several days in Venice. She didn't know why, really, but she had a feeling that Wood most likely wouldn't appreciate that story. So she just kept it for herself, a private memory of a summer that had changed her so much.

Finally, her story drew to a close with her return by floo powder to Diagon Alley, and their subsequent arrival at platform nine and three-quarters. "Then…well, you heard about the Hogwarts Express, of course."

"I was _on_ the Hogwarts Express," he replied.

"I know _that_, Oliver, but—well, I was referring to all the visits our compartment had."

"Visits? You mean the dementors, then?"

Ainsley looked at him like he'd just asked the most inane question she'd ever heard. "Alicia _told_ you, Oliver. I know she—" She broke off with a sigh. "Well, I suppose it wasn't that important, anyway."

"What wasn't?"

"That all the other Quidditch captains came by," she replied. "Damndest thing, really—I mean, Cedric Diggory wasn't a surprise, but when have _any_ of us ever spoken to Roger Davies? And Marcus Flint—"

"Flint doesn't need to be speaking to _any_ of you," he interrupted tersely. "If he tries—"

"He wasn't trying anything, Oliver," she said gently. "I don't like Flint any more than you do, but don't you think you'd be better off if you weren't so suspicious of him all the time?"

"Well, no. There's no telling what Slytherin might do to win the Quidditch Cup."

"Or the House Cup," she added. "Remember what Malfoy did to Potter, with that duel year before last."

"Which only further proves my point," said Wood. "Flint's got a vendetta with me, just like Malfoy has with Potter." He sighed. "Well, not _just_ like Malfoy has with Potter, but you get the idea."

"And you think Flint would use your Chasers to bring you down?"

"Actually, I was thinking more of you," he muttered.

Ainsley nearly laughed. "Oliver, that's absurd. Not only would it fail miserably, but Marcus Flint doesn't _think_ like that. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks at all."

"You can't play Quidditch with half a brain."

"Sure you can, if your team's good enough. But you can't play Quidditch _and_ pass your classes with only half a brain. And need I remind you that Flint's in his eighth year at Hogwarts?"

"Point taken." He laughed. "Ainsley, how did your story about Italy turn into a conversation about Marcus Flint?"

"I don't know, Oliver. Maybe you're in love with him."

He tossed a throw pillow in her direction. "Brat."

"Flint-lover." She threw the pillow back, then yawned. "I think I might be able to sleep now. What time is it?"

"Don't know. I don't wear a watch, you know." He yawned, stretching as he stood up and returned to his table. "I'd guess…maybe three-thirty?"

"You don't wear a watch, though."

He grinned. "No, but I have a _fantastic_ internal clock."

"Prat." She cuffed his shoulder as she passed him. "I suppose I'll see you at breakfast, then?"

"Assuming you wake up in time," he replied, ducking away from her slap just in time. "Goodnight, Ainsley."

She couldn't help but smile over her shoulder on her way up the stairs. "Goodnight, Oliver."

* * *

The next morning, Ainsley was up almost with the sun—which was probably only three or four hours since she'd gone to bed, she figured. But there was just no arguing with a mind and body that wanted to be awake, so she just got up, dressing quietly so as not to wake her roommates.

The common room was surprisingly populated for an early morning, but she took little notice of the students there. They were mostly sixth and seventh-years, anyway, and Wood wasn't among them. Actually, she wondered if Wood was awake at all.

That question was answered as soon as she reached the Great Hall, where Wood sat alone at the Gryffindor table. He looked up and smiled as she sat across the table from him. "Morning, Ainsley. You're awake early."

"And so are you," she replied. "Did you sleep well?"

"Considerably," he replied. "You?"

"Feels like I've had ten hours of sleep. Did I even have half that?"

He shrugged. "If you fell asleep when I did…probably not. But for what it's worth, you _look_ like you had a full night's sleep."

Ainsley nodded and poured herself a cup of tea. "That's good to know, Oliver. You look alert, yourself." She looked up and grinned at him. "By the way, how's Marcus?"

"Marcus?" It took a second for their discussion the night before to come back to him, and when it did, he laughed—and nearly spit out his own tea. "I don't know, Ainsley. Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Thought you might know better," she mumbled, turning her eyes to her porridge.

"I don't know a thing about him, you know."

"Sure you do." She looked up again—not at him, but at something beyond his shoulder—and grinned. "Might interest you to know he just walked in." He nodded absently. "And he's staring at you," she added.

Wood jumped, the toast in his hand flying across the table to smack Ainsley squarely in the nose. "He _what_?"

She laughed. "Oliver, did anyone ever tell you they've got 'gullible' written on the ceiling?"

"Not in the Great Hall, they haven't," he replied. "Can't have people writing all over an enchanted ceiling. And Flint's not staring at me, is he?"

"Well, he wasn't, until you started screaming. Drew a fair bit of attention to yourself, really." She glanced around quickly before meeting his gaze again. "Half the hall's looking at us now. I hope you're happy."

"Oh, I am." He grinned. "I know how you live for the attention, Ainsley."

"It's impossible to have grown up with the great Oliver Wood and _not_ grow used to the attention," she muttered. "Anyway, most of that attention is yours. And a fair amount of it's coming from the Slytherin table."

"Because…what? Flint's just as in love with me as I am with him?" Wood laughed. "Ainsley, I think you've gone mad."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She pushed her porridge bowl away. "You know, Oliver, you're eventually going to have to come to terms with these issues. I think I'm going to buy you an owl and name him Marcus. That should help, shouldn't it?"

"Well, yes. If you want me to be sent to Azkaban for the senseless murder of a defenseless creature."

"Who's a senseless murderer?"

The twin chorus from beside them could only mean one thing—Fred and George. Ainsley turned to see George seated beside her, Fred across the table. "No one. Oliver wouldn't _dare_, would he?"

Wood raised his eyebrows at the challenge. "I might, if—"

"You wouldn't destroy a gift, would you?" she interrupted. "Seems a bit impolite, to me."

"You're not the only one," George piped up. "Oliver, what's this talk of you destroying gifts?"

"It's only talk," he replied. "Haven't got any gifts to destroy, after all."

Fred shook his head. "I'm not surprised. You won't have any at _all_, with that attitude."

Ainsley sat back and let them bicker, watching the trio with a bemused smile. Fred and George knew exactly how to bring out Wood's more spirited side—the boy who was more concerned with playing Quidditch and having fun, and less with making sure Ainsley stayed out of trouble. Of course, Ainsley had begun to learn to bring out that exact same side, it seemed, and it was becoming easier by the day.

And she had to admit, she rather liked the results.

* * *

"So I see you and Wood have got your problems worked out," said Cedric, as they repotted rosebushes in the greenhouse that Wednesday. "What was it, anyway?"

Ainsley paused for a second, a clump of soil in her hand. "I don't know, really. Something about—well, to be honest, I rather think he thought I was playing mind games."

He laughed. "Do you even know _how_ to play mind games?"

"'Course I do," she grumbled. "I've got a mind, haven't I?"

"A bloody brilliant one," he replied. "What I meant is, you _wouldn't_ play mind games. You're better than that."

"Well, thank you, Cedric." She smiled at him and patted down the soil around the rosebush. "Why are we repotting roses, anyway? Wouldn't we be better off learning something more…I don't know, more _magical_?"

"If you'd like to critique a class, Miss Waters," said Professor Sprout, "perhaps you'd do better in Potions. I'm sure Professor Snape would just love the input."

Ainsley swallowed thickly. "Thank you, Professor, but if it's all right by you, I'd rather not die today."

"And I'd rather not have you die." She laughed. "You do realize, Ainsley, that roses are quite difficult to cultivate? And that rose petals and thorns are used in a wide variety of potions?"

"I _did _take notes at the beginning of class, Professor," she replied. "I'm just a bit surprised we started with wolfsbane and moved on to something as common as roses."

"Herbology places as much merit on the mundane as the exotic, Miss Waters. Perhaps your partner might enlighten you on the subject."

Arguing with Professor Sprout was just as pointless as arguing with Snape—even more so, in Ainsley's case, as Professor Sprout might actually take points from Gryffindor. She swallowed the retort on her tongue and nodded meekly. "Thank you, Professor. I think Cedric could enlighten me quite well."

Cedric smiled smugly as Professor Sprout walked away. "So you think I could enlighten you quite well?"

"Only if we're discussing how to become a smug prat," she replied. "I'm just lucky you're her favorite student, else Gryffindor might have lost points for that."

"Does that mean you'll start arguing Hufflepuff's case for all those points we've lost in Potions?"

Ainsley shook her head. She might have been Snape's least hated student, but she'd never go so far as to say she was his _favorite_. She didn't really think he could designate a favorite, anyway. "You might want to find a Ravenclaw to do that, Cedric. Don't think I can argue cases I haven't actually _witnessed_, really."

"You're better than you think you are, Ainsley," said Cedric, so softly she almost didn't hear him. But she _did_ hear him, and she looked up sharply to meet his bashful smile. "Well, you _are_," he continued. "Just, you know…so you know that."

Ainsley didn't know quite what to do, so she just smiled and said, "Thank you, Cedric." Then she went back to work on the rosebushes, all the while wondering just what Cedric had meant.

* * *

"He's not going to come over here," Alicia Spinnet said, over Charms homework that night.

Ainsley looked up and met her friend's gaze. "Who's not going to come over here?"

"Wood," Brenna replied. "Come on, Ains," she continued, in response to Ainsley's shocked expression. "You've been staring at him all night. Everyone knows you've got a crush on him."

"I haven't got a crush on him," she protested weakly. But her friends, annoyingly, just stared at her with knowing smiles. "Well, I haven't. And even if I did, it wouldn't matter much. He's not interested in a relationship, is he?" 

Katie grinned. "You seem to care an awful lot about what Wood's interested in, Ainsley."

"That's because he tells me almost every day. Now I think we should finish our Charms homework, don't you?"

"Professor Flitwick won't mind if we're missing an answer or two," Angelina mumbled. "Particularly if _you're_ in the class, Ainsley."

Ainsley laughed. "That's only because it might give him an excuse to expel me from Hogwarts. All the more reason for me to finish my homework, don't you think?"

Angelina shrugged as they bent back over their rolls of parchment. They both knew it was true, to some degree. Professor Flitwick might not have expelled Ainsley, but he certainly would have pounced on the opportunity to take points from Gryffindor.

"Where's Brenna?" Alicia asked, after a few minutes of silence.

Ainsley looked up, realizing with a start that Brenna had vacated her seat at the table. Exactly when she'd left, Ainsley had no idea; nor, for that matter, did she know where Brenna had gone. But she _had_ gone, and no one at the table knew where she was.

"Oliver!"

Brenna's laughter carried clear across the common room, and Ainsley exchanged a curious glance with Katie before all four girls turned in the direction of Brenna's voice. "Well, would you look at that?" Katie murmured. "It's a good thing you don't fancy him, Ainsley."

"A very good thing," Ainsley replied softly.

Across the room, before the fire, Brenna sat in an armchair beside Oliver Wood. He'd been reading a book that now lay open in his lap, and his attention was fully focused on Brenna's smiling face. She said something else, and he laughed merrily—and Ainsley felt her breath catch in her throat, although she had no idea why.

Then Brenna said something else to Wood and stood up, heading back across the room with a satisfied smile on her face. She slid back into her chair and grinned at Ainsley. "And you say you don't fancy him, Ainsley."

"I don't," Ainsley replied tersely.

If anything, her friends looked less convinced than they had before. And Ainsley, for some reason, felt less convinced as well. Of course, that didn't mean she fancied Oliver Wood, because she didn't.

Not at all.


	5. Chapter Five

****

Chapter Five

"Which is first?"

Ainsley didn't react to Wood's question until she realized it had been directed toward her. She looked up slowly, finding him gazing patiently at her from his place across the table and four seats down. "Well, it's Slytherin, yeah?"

"What?" Now he just looked utterly confused. "No. I mean, which _subject_, Ainsley."

"Oh, I thought you were talking about Quidditch," she mumbled.

"Not surprising. But we haven't even started practice yet—there's still time for me to talk about other things." He grinned. "So…Divination or Ancient Runes? Which one first?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me, Oliver. I'm up for anything."

"Well, then. D'you mind if we start with Ancient Runes? You could always fake your way through another week of Divination, if it comes down to it."

"But I don't like to lie," she replied.

"But you _could_, if you had to," he argued. "It's harder to fake Ancient Runes."

"You've been doing well enough for the past three years, haven't you?" she asked.

"Well, yes. And that's exactly why a week of faking Divination won't hurt you."

Ainsley sighed. "But I don't _want_ to fake Divination. I want to _learn_ it."

"Then you _will_ learn it." He grinned. "After I learn Ancient Runes."

"But I—" She stopped abruptly and sighed. "Oliver, d'you realize that for all this arguing, we could probably be halfway done with your homework by now?"

Wood shrugged. "We could. But then we wouldn't have had this much fun at breakfast, would we?"

* * *

An hour later, they were at a table in the Gryffindor common room, Wood's Ancient Runes texts spread out before them. They'd started with translations, but Ainsley had quickly declared that the least of his worries, moving instead to divination by Runes. That shouldn't have been a problem for Wood, considering his skill in Divination, but for some reason he was fantastically awful at it.

Of course, Ainsley was fantastically _good_ at divination by Runes, and fantastically _bad_ at all other forms of divination, so it made sense, in way. The only problem was that neither of them could figure out exactly what his problem was.

Then, almost out of nowhere, it hit Ainsley. "Oliver, it's no wonder have a problem with this!" she exclaimed. "You've got…I don't know, it's like some sort of mental block."

"Is there a spell for that?" he grumbled.

She laughed. "Not a spell, no. But it's _so_ simple to get around. I can't believe no one's noticed it before."

"Professor Wilcox isn't the most observant man, you know."

"Never mind Professor Wilcox," she said. "I'm only concerned with you."

Wood looked down at his textbook, then back up at her. "So what's my problem, then?"

"You're trying to read the Runes like a Divination student," replied Ainsley. "You're trying to read them subjectively, and it's really so much more straightforward." She sighed. "No, that doesn't make sense, does it?"

"Not entirely."

"What I mean is—is that you're making it unnecessarily hard on yourself." She fell silent, trying to find a way to explain it to him. "Okay. Try this. You don't need to read _into_ the Runes; you just need to _read_ them."

He sighed hopelessly. "I thought you had to infer a lot, with Ancient Runes."

"Well, yes. If you're trying to translate runic letters. But you're all right with that, yeah?"

"I—well, mostly." That wasn't entirely the truth, and they both knew it, but he _was_ better at the translations. "So what do I need to do?"

"Stop reading the Runes like—like you're in Divination, Oliver," said Ainsley. "It isn't as though you're reading tea leaves, or a crystal ball. You're not looking _for_ anything."

"So then, I'm just looking _at_ them?"

She smiled. "That's right. I can't believe Professor Wilcox never picked up on that."

"Professor Wilcox is used to logical students," he grumbled.

"And you're not one of them."

"No, I'm not." He sighed. "I'd rather like to be, though."

"I'd help you, if I…" Ainsley trailed off thoughtfully. "Can you teach logic, I wonder?"

He shrugged. "I suppose you can. Really, though, we'd never know unless we tried, would we?"

"And there's not a bit of harm in trying," she added. "It's bound to help us learn _something_, anyway."

* * *

And so Ainsley set out on the near-impossible quest of turning Oliver Wood into a logical thinker.

It was her opinion that no one could possibly devise the sheer volume of Quidditch plays that he did without having at least _some_ bit of logic in him—but unfortunately, that bit of logic was apparently well-hidden under layers upon layers of randomly connected thoughts and ideas. Or at least, that was the way Wood saw things. Ainsley didn't seem to think that posed much of a problem at all.

And it didn't—not really. She had an infinite amount of patience where Wood was concerned, and she spent most of the beginning of that week tirelessly helping him work through his Ancient Runes homework. Even Wood had to admit, by Wednesday night, that some of it was starting to make sense.

Thursday afternoon found Wood in Potions, trying desperately to stay awake after a particularly heavy lunch. After a well-placed elbow in the ribs courtesy of Percy, who sat beside him, Wood was finally able to pull himself out of his drowsiness and at least _pretend_ to focus on Snape's lecture.

Unfortunately, truth potions just didn't provide enough mental stimulation, and soon Wood found his thoughts drifting away from Potions, away from school—and onto Quidditch, and specifically a new play that had just popped into his head. "Beater should go _there_," he mumbled under his breath, lightly sketching a path on his parchment as Snape continued to drone on about the truth potions.

It was really inevitable that he'd be caught—no Gryffindor could let his mind drift in Potions without eventually being caught—but somehow, that thought didn't cross his mind. It didn't even sink in when Snape broke off his lecture in the middle of a sentence, or when the class around him fell deadly silent, or even when a dark form loomed in front of the table he shared with Percy.

"Mr. Wood."

Wood froze at the sound of Snape's voice, his gaze rising slowly to see the Potions master standing directly in front of him. "Erm. Yes, sir?"

"Can you please repeat for the class what I just said about truth potions?"

Actually, he couldn't repeat what Snape had said about _anything_, as he'd spent most of the last five minutes idly sketching a Quidditch play on his parchment. "No, sir. I'm sorry."

At the next table, Marcus Flint snickered. Wood glared at him, but Snape barely afforded the boy a glance. "Well, Mr. Wood, as you seem to find Quidditch more important than your classes, I trust you won't mind a bit of inter-team cooperation?"

__

Don't make me work with Flint. Please don't make me work with Flint. Had he fully realized what he was doing, Wood might have laughed, but right now it seemed like a fully logical course of action to try to influence Snape's thoughts through his own. Unfortunately, Snape didn't seem to be budging, so he sighed resignedly. "I won't mind that at all, sir."

"Work with Flint then," snapped Snape. When Wood hesitated slightly, he glared at the boy, his voice dropping a notch. "Five points from Gryffindor, Wood, and if I have to ask you again, it'll be fifteen."

Wood practically ran to the next table, leaving Snape to glare at Percy, who'd been all but abandoned. "Five more points from Gryffindor, Weasley. Head Boy should be able to keep his classmates in line."

Flint didn't say a word to Wood until at least halfway through the class, when they were well into the brewing of a simple truth potion. As he added a pinch of crushed lotus wing to his cauldron, he glanced over at Wood and snickered. "It's rather sad, isn't it, Wood? You've lost Gryffindor ten points for your Quidditch plays, and you _still_ won't win the Quidditch Cup."

"We'll do well enough," replied Wood tightly. "And at least I won't have to fail all my N.E.W.T.s to keep my team in the running for another year."

"That's assuming you pass your N.E.W.T.s at all, git. Rumor has it you've got that little Waters twit tutoring you in Ancient Runes." He laughed. "A fifth year, Wood? Have you lost what little mind you have?"

The idea of Marcus Flint insulting anyone's intelligence might have made Wood laugh, had Flint not just insulted Ainsley. As it was, his jaw set firmly as he chopped a handful of daisy roots. "Ainsley's the best Runes student in the whole school. But I suppose you wouldn't know that, as she'd never lower herself enough to talk to you."

Flint nodded, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I suppose you're right. She _does_ lower herself, but not to talk to me. Her mouth is busy doing…other things."

Wood slammed his knife down onto the table—and very nearly took off a finger in the process. He didn't quite notice that, though, Flint's comment having made him a bit too angry to actually _see_ straight. "Look, Flint. If you want to insult me, that's fine. But _don't_ drag Ainsley into this."

"What's the problem, Wood? Don't want rumors being spread about your _girlfriend_?"

"She's not my girlfriend," he snapped. "But I _do_ care about her. And I know she's miles above the likes of you."

Flint snorted. "Then she's miles above the likes of _you_, Wood. You're no better than I am."

"If you say so." Wood shrugged, tugging gently on the handle of his knife to extract it from the dent he'd made in the tabletop. "But I suppose it's something that she'd rather be my friend than give _you_ the time of day."

"Your friend?" said Flint, with a sneer. "You honestly expect anyone to believe _that's_ all she is, with all that 'studying' you do?"

"If you did half as much studying, Flint, maybe you'd have graduated by now."

"Well spoken, Mr. Wood."

Wood gulped at the familiar voice and looked up for the second time that day, to see Snape standing in front of him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I—"

Snape held up a hand, and Wood stopped abruptly, expecting a reprimand. To his surprise, though, Snape's glare focused on Flint. "Flint! Five points for your insolence, and for provoking your partner. I'm ashamed to have you disgrace my House for an eighth year." He turned back to Wood. "You were saying…?"

"Only that I apologize for my behavior," said Wood softly. "I was just standing up for a friend."

"Ah, yes—Gryffindor and its ridiculous code of honor." Snape shook his head. "No matter. I believe you have a potion to finish?"

If there was one thing Wood had learned in Potions, it was not to argue with a punishment—or lack thereof—from Snape. So he didn't argue, just nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir."

* * *

Wood didn't tell Ainsley about the incident in Potions, although he was certain that she was a large part of the reason why he hadn't been punished. He didn't think she really needed to know about any of it—and especially not about his exchange with Flint. It would have only angered her or made her uncomfortable, or possibly both. There was just no way it would have turned out well, so Wood kept it to himself.

Saturday morning, the weather was absolutely beautiful. Wood took pity on Ainsley's mournful gazes at the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling over breakfast and suggested that they work outside that week.

Ainsley agreed readily, figuring that the weather could make even Divination work worthwhile. Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on Wood making her read tea leaves—nor had she realized how absolutely militant he could be about Divination.

"So you've got to—no, Ainsley, you—oh, come on. Can't you relax?"

Ainsley looked up from the teacup in her hands and glared at him. "For your information, Oliver, I _am_ relaxed."

His eyebrows lifted dubiously. "You don't look it."

"Forgive me for having good posture." She sighed, dropping the teacup onto her knee. "Why have I got to relax, anyway?"

"Your aura flows more naturally when you're not tense," replied Wood.

Ainsley stared at him for a few seconds, trying to determine if he'd actually said that, or if she'd just imagined it. When she realized his expression was completely earnest, she couldn't help but laugh, so she ducked her head, hoping he wouldn't notice her smile—or the fact that her shoulders were shaking slightly.

He _did_ notice, though, and looked sharply at her. "What?"

"Do you actually _believe_ in this, Oliver?"

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "Well, Professor Trelawney's a bit of a fool, really, but I—_what_, Ainsley? It's not as if I can _help_ being good at Divination."

"But Oliver—"

"No," he interrupted. "Do I laugh at you because you're good at Potions? Or because you're the only student in this school who can read a note written in runic letters? Don't you think _that's_ a bit odd, Ainsley?"

"Of course I do," she replied. "I _know_ I'm not normal, Oliver. _You're_ the one who can't admit it."

"I didn't _ask_ to be good at Divination, you know."

"No one _asks_ to be good at anything," said Ainsley, leaning back against the grass. "I don't think you're a bit odd, really. I'm rather glad you're good at Divination."

He smiled. "You should be. Otherwise you'd never get your O.W.L.s."

"And is that all that really matters?" she asked softly.

"Sometimes you'd think so," he replied. "In some world, it _is_ all that matters. Twelve O.W.L.s, or you'll never be worth anything. And what for the boy who only got seven, and won't have top-grade N.E.W.T.s, either?"

Ainsley sat up and looked at him for a long moment. She honestly hadn't known Wood to be insecure about anything, ever. He was a natural leader, after all, and someone she'd never seen show anything but supreme confidence in himself and his surroundings. Never once had she dreamed that he might have his own insecurities, and somehow that simple humanizing quality was not disappointing but reassuring. 

"I think you're brilliant, Oliver," she finally said. "Seven O.W.L.s—and those weren't barely passing, either, were they?—and three years as Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain, to boot? That's an amazing accomplishment."

"Not so amazing as Head Boy, though. Is it?" he asked quietly.

"Percy Weasley could turn himself inside out and right again, and I'd still swear you were the better wizard. Isn't it more important to be well-rounded, anyway?"

"I don't know if any of that matters, if you want to play professional Quidditch."

She smiled brightly. "Right then. You're more than good enough to make it onto any team in the league, and then it's only a matter of time before you're off the Reserve team and actually _playing_. I'd give it three years before every young wizard wants to be just like you, and every young witch has your posters on her bedroom wall because you're just so _cute_—and all the while, our former Head Boy is slaving away at some low-end desk job in the Ministry of Magic."

Wood gazed at her, smiling bemusedly. "You really think I'm cute, Ainsley?"

Ainsley flushed scarlet. "Of course you'd pick up on _that_," she mumbled, before sighing. "Yes, Oliver, for what it's worth, I think you're an attractive young man. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, thank you," he replied, trying not to laugh at her oddly formal tone. "Want to try those tea leaves again?"

"All right." She picked up the cup again, peering down into the residue. "All I see is a boy who's about to be destroyed for laughing at his neighbor."

"Looks like your aura's closed up again. What if you look harder?"

"If I look harder, there's just a mass of residue." She sighed. "And…well, I see love…and bad news in love…and disappointment—oh, I hope that doesn't mean Quidditch."

"So do I," murmured Wood, leaning over her shoulder to look into the cup. "No, that's not disappointment. That's…well, that's a cat, isn't it? Means deceit, or a false friend."

"Yes, but _that's_ disappointment," she said, pointing to a clump of leaves shaped like a tower. "And that's all in the next three months, Oliver. All before Christmas."

"Then it looks like I'm in for a rough term, yeah?" He grinned. "Luckily, I don't have to take your predictions _too_ seriously."

She shrugged. "You might watch out, anyway, just to be safe. What do mine say?"

"There's a bear—a few bears, actually." He sighed. "That means bad luck, Ains. Apparently a lot of bad luck. Sorry."

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before. What else?"

Wood looked into the cup again. "Erm…a bull—that's arguing with friends. And…well, look at it."

"What about it?" She leaned over and looked over the rim of the cup. "Oh, that's a huge bull. Does that mean a huge argument, then? Or has my aura closed up again?"

"If you're going to poke fun at me, I won't help you pass Divination. And _then_ where will you be?"

"With seven O.W.L.s, same as you," she replied, smiling. "But then where will _you_ be, with the lowest Ancient Runes N.E.W.T. that Hogwarts has ever seen?"

"Can't be the lowest. Flint's taking Ancient Runes, too."

"So you want to score higher than your boyfriend, is that it?" Ainsley laughed. "Never knew you and Marcus were so competitive, Oliver. Thought it was a bit more loving, really."

"Well, that's only when we're alone. Have to keep up the house rivalry in public." He hated to admit it, but it was actually a lot of fun to play along with Ainsley when she got into these moods—even if the thought of Marcus Flint still made him bristle with anger. "And what if I wasn't joking about that?"

"I'd be surprised if you fancied boys, Oliver," said Ainsley. "You'd have had a go with one of them ages ago, if you did. I'm sure there are more than a few who wouldn't mind having you for a boyfriend, if you wanted them."

"And you've never thought that maybe _that's_ why I never had a girlfriend?"

"Of course not. Everyone knows you've never had a girlfriend because you're consumed with Quidditch." She smiled impishly. "And of course, I know you haven't forgotten the time I caught you and Andrea McEwan in the common room last year."

No, he hadn't forgotten that, nor had he forgotten the expression on Ainsley's face when she'd found the couple late one night. He grinned at her. "You don't suppose people think that's what _we're_ doing down there, do you?"

"I should hope not," replied Ainsley. "And I hope you aren't inviting any rumors."

"Oh, I'm not. Wouldn't want you spreading your own rumors in retaliation." Actually, that wasn't the only reason. He actually enjoyed the nights they spent together in the common room, talking about nothing in particular, without anyone else interrupting. He wasn't going to inflate Ainsley's ego by telling her that, though. "Can't imagine what sort of lies you'd spread about me."

"Flint would have you dead in a day, I'm sure," she murmured, leaning back against the grass again. "Don't think he'd take to kindly to the idea that you were in love with him. He's always seemed a bit closed-minded to me."

"'Closed-minded' implies that he actually has a _mind_, Ainsley."

She looked up at him, not entirely able to hide her smile. "Oliver, that's not _nice_."

He grinned cheekily, and she gave in to the giggles rising in her throat. Before he knew it, Wood was laughing, too—Ainsley's laughter was just infectious that way, he supposed.

After receiving several odd glances from passing students, Ainsley finally managed to subdue herself. She propped herself up on her elbows and turned to Wood, her eyes still sparkling. "Oliver. Tell me if this is strange, but…d'you think we'll always be friends?"

"It's not strange," Wood replied. "And we'll be friends forever, if I have a say in it." He grinned. "Unless you run off and fall in love with Flint, of course."


	6. Chapter Six

****

Chapter Six

The next Monday started out on a rather odd note for Ainsley. 

Actually, that wasn't exactly true. Everything was perfectly normal, until Cedric Diggory approached her in the Great Hall, before she could reach the Gryffindor table. "Ainsley, could I have a word with you?" he asked softly.

"Of course, Cedric." She let him lead her some distance away from the other students. "Is there a problem?"

"Oh! No—not with you," he replied. "It's just that—well, I've been having a bit of trouble with Ancient Runes lately, and…"

"And…?" She didn't want to make him nervous, really—although he _was_ adorable when he blushed—but she didn't know quite what he was asking.

"And I was wondering if you might help me," he said quickly, the words coming out all in one breath.

"Oh." So he _had_ been asking for her help, after all. "But we're in the same class, Cedric. Don't you think you'd better find an older student to help you with that?"

"I would, if any seventh years were as good with Ancient Runes as you are." He smiled beseechingly. "Come on, Ainsley. You know this stuff inside and out. You're the best in the whole school."

She honestly didn't know if it was the compliment, or his shy smile—or the fact that Wood was staring curiously at them from the Gryffindor table—that made her relent. "All right, but only because you have to keep your marks up. Can't afford to lose a Quidditch player, can we? Oliver would positively kill me if the teams weren't evenly matched."

"Oliver…" He trailed off and glanced toward the Gryffindor table. "Right. Wood. Er—we'll talk later, all right? Then maybe we can get a study schedule worked out?"

"That sounds fine, Cedric." She smiled briefly at him and made her way through the crowd—students were _still_ pouring in, inexplicably—to her table, where she took a seat. A seat directly between the Weasley twins, she realized a second too late, as she was met with matching smirks from either side. "Morning, Fred. George. Did you sleep well?"

"Only because I dreamt of you, Ains," Fred replied. "What was that about?"

"What was _what_ about?" she asked innocently.

"You and Diggory," George said from her other side. "Looked like he had something important to say."

Across the table, Wood mumbled something into his porridge, but Ainsley ignored him. "He just wants some help with Ancient Runes, that's all."

"Why would he want help from you?" Wood asked darkly.

"_You've _asked for her help loads of times already, Oliver," George snapped back at him.

Wood rolled his eyes at George, then looked at Ainsley with a slightly amused expression. "Well, that's only because she knows Ancient Runes inside and out. But seriously, Ains," he continued. "Watch out for Diggory. He seems decent enough, but I think he might want more than just passing marks."

"Then he might get it," she replied casually, hardly able to hide her smile when Wood choked on his porridge. He looked up at her, shocked, and she laughed. "The best marks in the class, Oliver. That _is_ what you meant, isn't it?"

* * *

"It's just that I feel like I'm taking advantage of you," Cedric protested, as he and Ainsley sat at a table in the Gryffindor common room with their Ancient Runes homework.

"Why?" Ainsley asked, leaning across Cedric to point her quill at part of his translation. "That's persevere, Cedric. Not preserve."

He sighed, crossing out the word. "Just goes to show, I'm _awful_ with these translations. Looks like I'm going to need a lot more help with this, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," replied Ainsley. "And I _don't_ think you're taking advantage of me. It helps me just as much as it helps you."

From across the common room, Wood rolled his eyes at them. "It helps me just as much as it helps you," he muttered to himself, in a considerably awful impression of Ainsley's voice. "Right. I'm sure it does. Tutoring a brainless git like Diggory isn't going to do anything for her Ancient Runes marks."

"And I suppose tutoring a brainless git like _you_ is?" Percy piped up, from across the table. He glanced over his shoulder at the pair, before turning back to Wood. "Honestly, Oliver, if I didn't know better, I'd swear you were jealous."

He almost laughed. "Jealous? _Me_? Are you daft?"

"I _said_, if I didn't know better. And I _do _know better." Percy shrugged, glancing back down at his Transfiguration essay."You wouldn't waste your time with someone like Ainsley Waters, if you didn't have to."

"And I only have to because of Ancient Runes," he added, almost cringing as the lie escaped his lips. "Well…and because of our families."

Percy nodded thoughtfully. "Right. You're _not_ jealous, are you?"

Wood looked past his friend, his gaze falling on Ainsley, just as she laughed lightly at something Cedric had said. His stomach clenched at the sound of her laughter, and he was relatively sure his teeth did too, but that didn't mean anything…did it? "Of course I'm not jealous," he replied softly. "I have better things to do with my time."

Of course, those "better things" only entailed finishing his Transfiguration essay and scribbling a quick note on a scrap of parchment, asking Ainsley to meet him later that night. Then he left Percy's table and headed toward his dormitory, dropping the note on Ainsley's table as he passed. She scanned it quickly and flashed him a smile, before sliding the parchment under her notes and looking back at Cedric's homework. "So what about these two, Cedric?" he heard her ask, as he started up the stairs. "Isn't it easier to try to translate them in context?"

Her voice faded away as he closed the dormitory door behind him, crossing the room to throw himself face-first onto his bed, his books hitting the bedspread beside him. He had a lot of thinking to do in the next few hours, it seemed.

But he didn't think—he was barely able to let his mind wander for five minutes before he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness, which really wasn't a bad place to be. And it especially wasn't a bad place to be when he wasn't dreaming, which of course he _wasn't_.

His sleep, in fact, was so dreamless and so deep that he didn't wake for hours—or at least, he assumed it was hours, as his dormmates were already in their beds when he finally opened his eyes. He could hear Percy snoring, but he knew the other boy's sleep could be disturbed by a pin dropping, so he slid out of bed and crept out of the dormitory as silently as possible.

Ainsley was already in the common room when he reached it, curled up in an armchair in front of the fire, her Divination textbook open in her lap. She looked up as he crossed the room, smiling wryly. "You're late."

"Am not," he mumbled, dropping into the chair across from hers. "You're early, that's all."

"Right. And that explains why I came down here precisely at eleven—_like your note said_—and I had to wait fifteen minutes before you. Because I'm _early_." Se laughed softly. "What's your real excuse?"

He shrugged. "Fell asleep. All that Ancient Runes work without a tutor takes a lot out of a man."

"You didn't even _do _Ancient Runes, Oliver. Are you always a liar, or is it just with me?"

"Just with you. You're usually so gullible."

Ainsley shook her head with a short laugh. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response. How _is_ your Ancient Runes?"

"It's going well enough," replied Wood. "Might be even better, if you hadn't abandoned me in favor of Diggory."

"I thought you liked him well enough, as long as you weren't opposing him in Quidditch," she murmured.

Well that was true—or _had_ been, he supposed, if he was going to be completely honest. He didn't truly dislike Cedric Diggory; it was mostly only the thought of him with Ainsley that made Wood's stomach turn. But there was no way to tell Ainsley that without giving her the wrong idea—or maybe it was the _right_ idea. Either way, he wasn't ready to share it. "I like him well enough, if _you_ like him," he lied. "And you _do_ like him?"

"Well, of course I like him. He's really decent, and—" She broke off abruptly, her eyes widening as she stared at him. "Oliver, are you asking if I fancy him?"

"Well…" He trailed off, ducking his head to hide his reddening cheeks. He hadn't intended to insinuate that Ainsley _fancied_ Diggory—or maybe he had. And now that it was out, there was really only one thing to do. "Not that I was _really_ wondering, and not that I think it's any of my business, but…well, do you?"

Ainsley flushed and dropped her gaze. "I don't _know_," she mumbled. "I don't know why you care, anyway."

"I don't. I just—I was wondering, that's all. Because I'm your friend."

"Friend. Right." She sighed. "So Quidditch starts up soon, yeah?"

"Yeah, that's right," replied Wood, feeling the smile already beginning to light up his face. "We'll be starting practice at the beginning of October, and I think we're set to have a brilliant season. Everyone knows Gryffindor's got the best ruddy team in the school."

"That's because they've got the best ruddy Captain in the school," she said softly. "And don't argue that, Oliver. Only one who might come close to you is Flint, and we all know he's a great sodding prat."

Wood beamed. He couldn't help it, really; compliments on Quidditch always pleased him, and compliments on Quidditch from Ainsley were even better, for some reason. "You really think so, Ains?"

"Of course I do." She grinned. "You'll have a fantastic season, I'm sure. And I'll be there, cheering you on every step of the way. You know that right?"

If possible, his smile grew even bigger. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

* * *

The days flew by after that, and before Wood knew it, it was October, and the Quidditch season was about to begin. The first Thursday of the month, he held a meeting with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, in a corner of the common room. Ainsley, though he hadn't asked her to, moved to the library to study with Cedric—probably so he wouldn't hear about the Gryffindor team's strategies. He made a mental note to thank her in the future.

That weekend, Wood and Ainsley switched their regular Saturday study session to Friday night—which meant that Ainsley had to rearrange Cedric's session as well—so Wood could be ready for Gryffindor's first practice on Saturday morning.

And ready he was—up well before the sun, possessed of an almost manic energy that only the thought of Quidditch could give him. Percy stuck his head through the curtains of his bed once, glaring at Wood as he tried to gather the Quidditch plays he'd been tweaking since August. "Would you mind at least _trying_ to be quite, Oliver? It's before dawn."

"Actually, it's _after_ dawn," replied Wood, pointing to the sunlight beginning to stream through their window. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think the rest of my team might be up by now."

In truth, he knew they weren't, but it was a good enough excuse to get away from Percy's complaining. Wood checked his stack of plays, straightened his robes, and left the dormitory, letting the door slam somewhat loudly behind him. He felt a bit guilty for having disturbed his other dormmates, but really, it was somehow more important just to annoy Percy at that moment.

The common room was empty when he reached the bottom of the staircase, and he glanced around quickly before taking a chair in front of the fire. His team would be down soon enough, he decided, and until then he could just look over his plays once more—or twice more.

Not five minutes had passed before he heard a set of footsteps on the girls' staircase. He didn't turn around, or even look up from the parchment in his hands. "Alicia? Katie? Angelina?"

"Wrong, wrong, and wrong," came Ainsley's soft voice, from behind him. "They're still upstairs, moaning about Dictator Wood and the Quidditch regimen from Hell. Give them five minutes, and they'll be over it."

"They always are." He turned to grin at her. "What're you doing up so early, Ainsley? I'd have thought you'd be making the most of your Saturday off."

"It's not a Saturday _off_, though," she replied, sitting cross-legged in the chair across from him and dropping the books in her arms into her lap. "I've got another Quidditch Captain to tutor this morning."

"Ah, so Diggory stole you from me, did he?"

"Actually, _you_ stole me from _him_," she retorted. "I had to switch my Friday night and Saturday morning, because _someone_ needed the morning free to practice Quidditch."

Wood stared at her, not the least bit amused. "D'you _want_ us to lose the Quidditch Cup, Ainsley?"

"Of course not." She laughed softly. "Although I'd venture that's just as much because I wouldn't want to see your face if Slytherin won _again_. And speaking of Slytherin, shouldn't you make sure that Flint hasn't stolen your pitch again?"

A stab of panic hit his stomach, and he _knew_ it was visible on his face—for a second, at least, before he recovered. "Flint's not going to steal the pitch. He hasn't got a Seeker who bought his way onto the team and needs the extra training, this season." He gazed at her, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"I don't know," said Wood, shrugging. "Maybe you don't want me to run into your precious Diggory. Maybe you'd rather keep your Quidditch Captains separate."

Ainsley stared at him, and if he didn't know better, he'd have sworn she thought he'd gone mad. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wouldn't want Cedric to see the plays you've worked so hard on? Honestly, Oliver, why do you always assume the worst?"

"Because then you're prepared for the worst, when it happens."

"And if it doesn't happen?" she asked softly.

He grinned. "Then it's all a sort of pleasant surprise. You can't fault me for wanting to be prepared, Ains."

Before she could reply to that, a series of footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the other six members of the Quidditch team. Ainsley was barely able to scoot her chair out of the way before Fred and George bounced directly in front of her and descended on Wood, each grabbing an arm and tugging him out of his chair. "Come along, Captain Wood, it's time for practice," said George.

"Stop talking to the pretty girl and come play dictator to us," Fred added. "We're ready and waiting for your leadership."

Wood let the twins pull him for a few steps before he shook them off, returning to his chair to tuck his plays under one arm and take his broom in the other hand. He flashed a grin at Ainsley before he led the team across the common room to the portrait hole, which he pushed open—directly into something.

Or rather, someone, he realized as he came face to face with a shocked Cedric Diggory. The younger boy's eyes widened, and he took a quick step back. "Wood. Hello. I'm—er, I'm actually looking for Ainsley. Have you seen her?"

Wood stared at him for a few seconds, trying to determine exactly what had made Cedric so nervous. Then it occurred to him that not only was Cedric trying to get past Wood and into Gryffindor Tower, but he was trying to do so with the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team blocking his path. He wanted to offer Cedric a smile, or at least some reassuring words, but for some reason, all he could manage was a curt nod. "She's inside, waiting for you. Don't know how you've got her awake so early, but you've done it."

Cedric nodded. "So if I…can I just get in there? I mean, is that sort of thing allowed?"

"Of course it is," Alicia spoke up, stepping aside to let Cedric through the portrait hole. "Enjoy your studying, Cedric."

The boy nodded and stepped into the Gryffindor common room, the Fat Lady's portrait swinging closed behind him. The Quidditch team followed Wood through the halls in complete silence for a few seconds, until George snickered. "Enjoy your studying, Cedric," he squeaked, in an obvious imitation of Alicia. "It's almost pathetic how obvious you are, Alicia."

"Obvious about what?" she asked lightly.

"D'you honestly think that no one can see that you fancy Diggory?" He laughed. "Not the greatest choice, really, because he _is_ rather thick—but honestly, Alicia, it's almost as bad as the way Ainsley is with—"

With who, no one found out, because Angelina chose that moment to interrupt. "So, Fred, are you excited about practice?"

Fred grinned. "Not half as excited as I am about the speech Oliver's sure to give today."

Wood ignored that comment—actually, he ignored most everything around him, walking from Gryffindor Tower to the Quidditch pitch in complete silence. It wasn't until the team reached the locker room and had changed into their practice robes that he finally spoke—and even then, it was only to give the speech he'd been practicing.

Fred and George didn't take it as seriously as he'd hoped they would—but then again, he hadn't really expected them to, so it wasn't _too_ upsetting. The rest of the team, to their credit, managed to keep their eyes open and appear at least somewhat attentive. Of course, by the time he was ready to let them actually _practice_, they all looked considerably fidgety, and he couldn't blame them, being more than ready to mount his broomstick and take to the air himself.

And that was just what he did, when he released the team from the locker room—mounted his broomstick, kicked off from the ground, and took a quick practice lap around the pitch. The smile came to his face almost unconsciously, the second the wind hit his hair, and by the time he reached the spot where the rest of the team had gathered, he couldn't control his grin.

This was always the best part of his autumn, and he was determined to make this autumn the best one yet.

* * *

Two weeks later, the school was abuzz with activity. A Hogsmeade weekend had been announced that evening, and it seemed that every student was beyond excited. The Gryffindor common room had been so loud it was almost intolerable, so Ainsley had escaped to meet Cedric in the library.

But even the library had lost its studious edge, it seemed. They'd barely been seated for ten minutes before the fifth mention of Honeyduke's from the next table made Ainsley throw her quill down with a sigh. "Honestly how is anyone supposed to concentrate if the entire _school_ talking about Hogsmeade?"

The Ravenclaws at the next table glared at her, and she rolled her eyes. "I don't know why _you're_ so upset. Even third-years should know that homework is more important than Honeyduke's. Ravenclaws, aren't you? Shouldn't you be concerned with your studies, anyway?"

"And who are you?" a boy asked. "Not a prefect, are you?"

"No, Cornfoot, she's not," said Cedric. "But that's by her choice, and no one else's." He smiled at Ainsley, lowering his voice as he spoke to her. "It's their first Hogsmeade weekend. Stands to reason they'll be excited about it. You were, when you were a third year."

Was she? Ainsley couldn't remember—or maybe she just hadn't seemed quite so obnoxious to herself, at the time. "I didn't say I wasn't _excited_ about it. I just want to finish my homework."

"Right." He glanced down at his Arithmancy book, then grinned back up at her. "So you're excited?"

She smiled. "Of course. It's always nice to get away from the school grounds for a while, don't you think?"

"I think so." Cedric picked up his quill, twirling it idly between his fingers. "So. Are you going with anyone? I suppose Wood's asked you by now."

"Oliver?" She laughed. "No, Oliver hasn't asked me. I don't know why he would—and anyway, I don't think he even knows we have a Hogsmeade weekend scheduled. They've been at Quidditch practice all evening."

Cedric nodded slowly. "All right. So assuming he doesn't ask you, and you don't ask him…would you want to go with me?"

"Why would—" The question stalled abruptly as his own question sank into her head. "Oh. _Oh_. You want me to…?"

"Yes. I mean. If you want to." He smiled hesitantly. "You don't have to feel oblig—"

"I know," she interrupted. "And I don't. I _want_ to, Cedric."

His hesitant smile widened into a full-blown grin. "Really? I thought for sure you'd have waited for Wood to ask you."

"Why would Oliver ask me?" asked Ainsley, one eyebrow rising as she gazed at Cedric. "Why would I _want_ him to ask me? I'm going with you, aren't I?" He nodded, and she smiled brightly. "And that's as it should be. I like you, Cedric. I like spending time with you. And I'm glad you asked me to go to Hogsmeade."

"I'm glad you said yes," said Cedric softly.

Ainsley didn't reply to that; she just smiled, bending back over her Transfiguration homework. Going to Hogsmeade with Cedric would no doubt make her the envy of every girl in her year, and she honestly _did_ like spending time with him. But still…part of her couldn't forget what he'd said, about her preferring to go with Wood.

__

Would she have preferred to go with Wood?

* * *

Later that night, it wasn't Wood but Hermione that Ainsley found in the common room. She hadn't really expected to find Wood—they'd met almost every night recently, but he'd hinted that Quidditch practice was about to turn especially rough—but Hermione was definitely a surprise. 

The girl sat alone at a table, books spread out before her; Ainsley recognized one as the introductory Ancient Runes text. It certainly looked like a lot of work—and it also looked like Hermione was struggling just a bit.

Ainsley stood there for a few seconds before she decided it would really be best to stop staring and announce her presence. "Hello, Hermione. You're up late."

Hermione glanced up at her, then bent back over her parchment. "So are you, Ainsley. If you're looking for Oliver Wood, you just missed him."

"Why would I be looking for Oliver?" she asked innocently.

"Do you really think I'm that stupid, Ainsley?" Hermione looked up from her homework again, leveling Ainsley with a gaze so intense that she might have sworn the girl was thirty instead of thirteen. "I know you spend almost every night down here. It's a wonder either of you gets any sleep."

"Some of us need more sleep than others," she murmured. Hermione shrugged and bent back over her translation. "Well, while I'm up, I might as well be of some use. D'you need any help with that?"

"How will I learn, if I don't do the work for myself?"

"How will you learn, if you don't know _how_ to do the work?" she countered. "It's just as well, though. I can't tutor _every_ Ancient Runes student."

Hermione, absorbed in her studies once more, didn't reply. Ainsley watched her for a few more seconds, waiting for at least an acknowledgement. Receiving none, and not wanting to stay around to annoy the other girl, she shrugged to herself and headed back up the staircase.

Haldir was at the window when she returned, beating his left wing softly against the glass. She cracked open the window just enough to let him fly inside, then untied the scrap of parchment bound to his leg. He hooted softly, nipped at her elbow, and took off again into the night.

Ainsley closed the window and took the parchment back to her bed. She unfolded the scrap, reaching for her wand, which she'd shoved beneath her pillow before heading into the common room. "Lumos," she whispered, maneuvering the soft light to illuminate the scrawled words.

__

Quidditch was especially rough tonight. Don't know what I'm going to do that lunatic Captain, really, but I'll figure it out in the morning. I'll miss talking to you tonight, but I'm sure we'll make up for lost time later.

Oliver

P.S. Lucky your madman of an owl showed up at my window. Otherwise, I'd have had to leave this with Hermione.

She laughed softly, folding the parchment carefully. "Nox," she whispered, sliding both the wand and parchment under her pillow in the fading light. She drew the curtains around her bed, flopping back against the pillows with a wry smile. "Doesn't know what he's going to do with that Captain," she murmured, "What a strange boy." 

Of course, he was a strange boy whose note currently rested beneath her pillow, but that was another story entirely.


End file.
